~    lC?} 

I          r 


POPULAR  NOVELS 
By    Mrs.    Mary   J.    Holmos, 

A.H  published  uniform  -with  this  volume,  at  $1.50,  and  sent 
free  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 

I.  —  HUGH  WORTIIINGTON. 
.  II.  —  DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT. 
III.—  LENA  RIVERS.H" 
IV.  —  TEMPEST   AND   SUNSHINE. 
V.  —  MARIAN   GREY. 
VI.—  MEADOW   BROOK. 
VII.  —  ENGLISH  ORPIIANS.'V- 
Tin.  —  DORA  DEANE. 
IX.—  COUSIN  MAUDE. 
X.  —  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 
XI.  -  TilE    CAMERON    PRIDE.    { 

Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating  writer. 

Her  books  are  always  entertaining;  and  she  has  the 

rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy  and  affec 

tions  of'lier  readers,  and  of  holding  their 

attention  to  her  pages  with  deep 

and  absorbing  interest. 


Publisher, 
Mew  York. 


THE 


HOMESTEAD  01  THE  HILLSIDE 


R  Y 


MRS.  MARY  J.  HOLMES, 

ATJTIIOn  OF  " TEMPEST  AND  6UNSHIMK,"   AjfflC  "THE  EN fifc^SII  ORPHANS. 


NEW  YORK: 

Car/eton,  Publisher,  413   Broadway. 

M  DCCC  LXVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congrem.  in  the  y«or  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  aftv-flve, 

BY  MILLER,  OKTON  &  MULLIGAN, 
In  the  Clerk's  Offioe  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Northern  District  of  New  Y  ork. 


T© 


Folume 


M17SS89 


• 


CONTENTS. 
i. 

THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 


I.  Mrs.  Hamilton,               .             .             -  •             .11 

II.  Lenora  and  her  Mother,     ...  I5 

III.  One  Step  Toward  the  Homestead,         .  .       19 

IV.  After  the  Burial,    . 

V.  Kate  Kirby,  .....       32 

VI.  Raising  the  Wind,                                           •  40 

VII.  The  Step-mother,            .              .             .  •             .45 

VIII.  Domestic  Life  at  the  Homestead,                 .  .              67 

IX.  Lenora  and  Carrie,        .              .             •  •             .VI 

X.  Darkness,                               .                           .  «               75 

XL  Margaret  and  her  Father,           .  .             .       87 

XII.  "  Carrying  out  Dear  Mr.  Hamilton's  Plans,"  .               94 

XIII.  Retribution,      .  ...     100 

XIV.  Finale,        .             .             .             .             •  •             H3 

II.    , 
RICE  CORNER. 

I.  Introductory,          .             .             .             •  •             115 

II,  The  Belle  of  Rice  Corner,         .  .             .     122 

III.  Monsieur  Penoyer,               .             .             .  •             125 

IV.  Cousin  Emma,   ...•••      132 


vili  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER.  PAOB 

V.  Richard  Evelyn  and  Harley  Aslimore,         .  ,              136 

VI.  Mike  and  Sally,              ....  147 

VIL  The  Bride,              ....  160 


III. 

THE  GILBERTS ;  OR,  RICE  CORNER  NUMBER  TWO. 

I.  The  Gilberts,     .  .  .  .  .  .167 

II.  Nellie,         ......  161 

III.  The  Haunted  House,     .....  168 

IV.  Jealousy,    .....  171 
V.  New  Relations,               .....  174 

VI.  Poor,  poor  Nellie,                 ....  17'J 


IV. 

THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES. 

I.  Night  before  Thanksgiving,      .  .  .  .181 

II.  Thanksgiving  Day,  ....  184 

III.  Ada  Harcourt,  .  .  .  .  .     1(JO 

IV.  Lucy,          ......  TJ9 

V.  Uncle  Israel,     ......      202 

VI.  Explanation,  .....  205 

VII.  A  Maneuver,     ......     208 

VIII.  Cousin  Berintha  and  Lucy's  Party,  .  .  213 

IX.  A  "Wedding  at  St.  Luke's,          .  .  .  .223 

X.  A  Surprise,  .....  227 

XI.  Lizzie,  .  .  .  .  .  .289 


CONTENTS.  II 

V. 

THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

CHAPTER.  PAOR 

I.  Uncle  Amos  and  Aunt  Polly,                •             .  .       237 

II.  Alice,          ......  238" 

III.  Little  Items,  ......       243 

IV.  Frank,             .          .             .             .                           .  245 
V.  Woman's  Nature,           .             .             .             .  .249 

VI.  Squire  Herndon  and  Ira,     ....  251 

VII.  Alice's  Mother,              .              .             .             .  .254 

VIII.  The  Wanderer's  Return,  ....  258 
IX.  Father  and  Child,         .              .             .             .  .262 

X.  The  Old  Man's  Death-bed,              ...  264 

XL  The  Recognition,           .              .             .             .  .266 

XII.  The  Funeral,            .....  268 

XIII.  "All's  well  that  ends  well,"                  .             .  .270 

VI. 

GLEN'S  CREEK. 

I.  Reminiscences,  .....       273 

II.  Deacon  Wilder,      .....  275 

III.  Cato  andDillah,           .             .             .             .  .279 

IV.  The  Gortons,         .....  281 
V.  The  New  Home,           .             .             .             .  .       282 

VI.  Orianna,          .              .              ...              .  284 

VII.  Marian,  ......       286 

VIII.  Robert  and  Orianna,  .  .  .  29C 

IX.  The  Bridal,       ......       296 

X.  Oriamia's  Faith,  .....  801 

XL  Preparations  for  r.  Journey,  .  805 

XII  Ella,  ......  809 

XIII.  The  Death-bed,             .              .             .             .  '  .813 

XIV.  The  Denouement,    ...  317 

A 


X  CONTENTS. 

VII. 

THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOK 

OOAPTKS.  PAGE 

I.  Josephine,          .....  323 

II.  A  Peep  at  the  Gable-Roofed  House  atSnowdon,    .  333 

III.  Locust  Grove,   .  .  .  .  .  .336 

IV.  Delphine  andM'Gregor,     ....  842 
V.  Jimmy,              ......  845 

VI.  Snowdon,    ......  350 

VII.  The  New  House,               .             .             „  864 

VIII.  Mrs.  M'Gregor.     .             .             .             .             .  861 

IX   Chacgwi,         ......  171 


gamcsMr  on  ilje 


CHAPTER  I. 

MRS.     HAMILTON. 

FOR  many  years  the  broad,  ricli  acres,  anil  old  fash 
ioned,  massive  building  known  as  "The  Homestead  on 
the  Hillside,"  had  passed  successively  from  father  to  son, 
until  at  last  it  belonged  by  right  of  inheritance  to  Ernest 
Hamilton.  Neither  time  nor  expense  had  been  spared  in 
beautifying  and  embellishing  both  house  and  grounds,  and 
at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking,  there  was  not,  for 
miles  around,  so  lovely  a  spot  as  was  the  shady  old 
homestead. 

It  stood  at  some  distance  from  the  road,  and  on  the 
bright  green  lawn  in  front,  were  many  majestic  forest 
trees,  on  which  had  fallen  the  lights  and  shadows  of  more 
than  a  century ;  and  under  whose  wide-spreading  brandies 
oft,  in  the  olden  time,  the  Indian  warrior  had  paused  from 
the  chase  until  the  noonday  heat  was  passed.  Leading 
from  the  street  to  the  house,  was  a  wide,  graveled  walk 
bordered  with  box,  arid  peeping  out  from  the  wilderness 
of  vines  and  climbing  roses,  were  the  white  walls  of  the 
huge  building,  which  was  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  a 
double  piazza. 

Many  and  hallowed  were  the  associations  connected 
with  that  old  homestead.  On  the  curiously  carved  seats 
beneath  the  tail  shade  trees,  were  cut  the  names  of  some, 


12  THE  HOMESTEAD  OX  TIIE  HILLSIDE. 

who  there  had  lived,  and  loved,  and  passed  away 
Through  the  little  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  jtisl 
across  the  brooklet,  whose  clear  waters  leaped  and  laughed 
in  the  glad  sunshine,  and  then  went  dancing  away  in  the 
woodland  below,  was  a  quiet  spot,  where  gracefully  the 
willow  tree  was  bending,  where  the  wild  sweet  brier  was 
blooming,  and  where,  too,  lay  sleeping  those  who  once 
gathered  round  the  hearth-stone  and  basked  in  the  sun 
light  which  ever  seemed  resting  upon  the  Homestead  on 
the  Hillside. 

But  a  darker  day  was  coming ;  a  night  was  approach 
ing  when  a  deep  gloom  would  overshadow  the  homestead 
and  the  loved  ones  within  its  borders.  The  servants,  ever 
superstitious,  now  whispered  mysteriously  that  the  spirits 
of  the  departed  returned  nightly  to  their  old  accustomed 
places,  and  that  dusky  hands  from  the  graves  of  the  slum 
bering  dead  were  uplifted,  as  if  to  warn  the  master  of  the 
domain  of  the  desolation  which  was  to  come.  For  more 
than  a  year  the  wife  of  Ernest  Hamilton  had  been  dying 
—  slowly,  surely  dying  —  and  though  when  the  skies 
were  brightest  and  the  sunshine  warmest  she  ever  seemed 
better,  ef*li  morning's  light  still  revealed  some  fresh  rav 
age  the  disease  had  made,  until  at  last  there  was  no  hope, 
und  the  anxious  group  which  watched  her  knew  full  well 
that  ere  long  among  them  would  be  a  vacant  chair,  and 
ji  the  family  burying  ground  an  added  grave. 

One  evening  Mrs.  Hamilton  seemed  more  than  usually 
/ustiess,  and  requested  her  daughters  to  leave  her,  that 
she  might  compose  herself  to  sleep.  Scarcely  was  she 
alone,  when  with  cat-like  tread  there  glided  through  the 
doorway  the  dark  figure  of  a  woman,  who  advanced  to 
ward  the  bedside,  noiselessly  as  a  serpent  would  steal  to 
his  ambush.  She  was  apparently  forty-live  years  of  age, 
and  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  which  seemed  to  incroasa 


AfES.   HAMILTON.  13 

the  marble  whiteness  of  her  face.  Her  eyes,  large,  black, 
ami  glittering,  fastened  themselves  upon  the  invalid  with 
a  gaze  so  intense  that  Mrs.  Hamilton's  hand  involuntarily 

ght  the  bell-rope,  to  summon  some  one  else  to  her 
oorn. 

But  ere  the  bell  was  rung,  a  strangely  sweet,  musical 
voice  fell  on  her  ear,  and  arrested  her  movements.  "  Par 
don  me  for  intruding,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and  suffer  me 
to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mrs.  Carter,  who4fcot  long 
since  removed  to  the  village.  I  have  heard  of  your  ill 
ness,  and  wishing  to  render  you  any  assistance  in  my 
power,  I  have  ventured,  unannounced,  into  your  presence, 
hoping  that  I  at  least  am  not  unwelcome. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  had  heard  of  a  widow  lady,  who  with 
an  only  daughter  had*  recently  removed  to  the  village, 
which  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  long  hill  on  which  stood  the 
old  homestead.  She  had  heard,  too,  that  Mrs.  Carter, 
though  rather  singular  in  some  respects,  was  unusually 
benevolent,  spending  much  time  in  visiting  the  sick  and 
needy,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  ministering  to  their  comfort. 

Extending  her  hand,  she  said,  "  I  know  you  by  reputa 
tion,  Mrs.  Carter,  and  feel  greatly  pleased  thatHbu  have 
thought  to  visit  me.  Pray  be  seated." 

This  last  invitation  was  superfluous,  for  with  the  air  of 
a  person  entirely  at  home,  the  lady  had  seated  herself, 
and  as  the  room  was  rather  warm,  she  threw  back  her 
bonnet,  disclosing  to  view  a  mass  of  rich  brown  hair, 
which  made  her  look  several  years  younger  than  she  really 
A\  as.  Nothing  could  be  more  apparently  kind  and  s'm- 
cere  than  were  her  words  of  sympathy,  nothing  more 
soothing  than  the  sound  of  her  voice ;  and  when  she  for 
#  moment  raised  Mrs.  Hamilton,  while  she  adjusted  hei 
pillows,  the  sick  woman  declared  that  never  before  ha* 
any  one  done  it  so  gently  oi»  so  well. 


14  THE  HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  just  resuming  her  seat,  when,  in  tha 
adjoining  hall,  there  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  tread,  and 
had  Mrs.  Hamilton  been  at  all  suspicious  of  her  visitor, 
she  would  have  wondered  at  the  flush  which  deepened  on 
her  cheek  when  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Hamilton  stood 
in  their  midst.  On  seeing  a  stranger,  he  turned  to  leave, 
but  his  wife  immediately  introduced  him,  and  seating 
himself  upon  the  sofa,  he  remarked,  "  I  have  seen  you 
frequently  in  church,  Mrs.  Carter,  but  I  believe  I  have 
never  spoken  with  you  before." 

A  peculiar  expression  flitted  over  her  features  at  these 
words,  an  expression  which  Mr.  Hamilton  noticed,  and 
which  awoke  remembrances  of  something  unpleasant, 
though  he  could  not  tell  what. 

"  Where  have  I  seen  her  before  ?  "  thought  he,  as  she 
bade  them  good  night,  promising  to  come  again  and  stay 
a  longer  time.  "Where  have  I  seen  her  before?"  and 
then  involuntarily  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  time, 
years  and  years  ago,  when  a  wild  young  man  in  college, 
he  had  thoughtlessly  trifled  with  the  handsome  daughter 
of  his  landlady.  Even  now  he  seemed  to  hear  her  last 
words,  as  he  bade  her  farewell :  "  You  may  go,  Ernest 
Hamilton,  and  forget  me  if  you  can,  but  Luella  does  not 
so  easily  forget ;  and  remember,  when  least  you  expect 
it,  we  shall  meet  again." 

Could  this  strange  being,  with  honeyed  words  and  win 
ning  ways,  be  that  fiery,  vindictive  girl  ?  Impossible ! 
and  satisfied  with  this  conclusion,  Mr.  Hamilton  resumed 
hia  evening  paper. 


LENORA  AND  HER  MOTHER.  1 * 

CHAPTER  II. 

LENOHA     AND     HE  IS     MOTHER. 

FROM  the  "windows  of  a  small,  white  cottage,  at  the  ex« 
t?  emity  of  Glenwood  village,  Lenora  Carter  watched  for 
hor  mother's  return.  "She  stays  long,"  thought  she, 
"but  it  bodes  success  to  her  plan;  though  when  did  she 
undertake  a  thing  and  fail !  " 

The  fall  of  the  gate-latch  was  heard,  and  in  a  moment 
Mrs.  Carter  was  with  her  daughter,  whose  first  exclama 
tion  was,  "What  a  little  eternity  you've  been  gone! 
Did  you  renew  your  early  vows  to  the  old  man  ?  " 

"I've  no  vows  to  renew,"  answered  Mrs.  Carter,  "but 
I've  paved  the  way  well,  and  got  invited  to  call  again." 

"  Oh,  capital ! "  said  Lenora.  "  It  takes  you,  mother,  to 
do  up  things,  after  all ;  but,  really,  was  Mrs.  Hamilton 
pleased  with  you  ?  " 

"Judging  by  the  pressure  of  her  hand  when  she  bade 
me  good-by,  I  should  say  she  was,"  answered  Mrs.  Car 
ter;  and  Lenora  continued:  "Did  you  see  old  Money 
bags?" 

"Lenora,  child,  you  must  not  speak  so  disrespectfully 
of  Mr.  Hamilton,"  said  Mrs.  Carter. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  answered  Lenora,  while  her 
mother  continued :  "  I  saw  him,  but  do  not  think  he  re 
cognized  me ;  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  he  should 
not,  until  I  have  made  myself  indispensable  to  him  and 
his  family." 

"  Which  you  will  never  do  with  the  haughty  Mag,  I 
am  sure,"  said  Lenora ;  "  but  tell  me,  is  the  interior  of 
the  house  as  handsome  as  the  exterior  ?  " 

"Far  more  fro,"  was  the  reply;'  and  Mrs.  Carter  pro 


16  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

ceeded  to  enumerate  the  many  costly  articles  of  furniture 
she  had  seen. 

She  was  interrupted  by  Lenora,  who  asked,  "How 
long,  think  you,  will  the  incnmbrance  live  ?  " 

"Lenora,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  "you  shall  not  talk  so. 
Ko  one  wishes  Mrs.  Hamilton  to  die ;  but  if  such  an  af 
flictive  dispensation  does  occur,  I  trust  we  shall  all  be 
resigned." 

"  Oh,  I  keep  forgetting  that  you  are  acting  the  part  of 
a  resigned  widow ;  but  I,  thank  fortune,  have  no  part  to 
act,  and  can  say  what  I  please." 

"  And  spoil  all  our  plans,  too,  by  your  foolish  babbling," 
interposed  Mrs.  Carter.  • 

"  Let  me  alone  for  that,"  answered  Lenora.  "  I  have  n't 
been  trained  by  such  a  mother  for  nothing.  But,  seri 
ously,  how  is  Mrs.  Hamilton's  health  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  low,  and  cannot  possibly  live  long,"  was 
the  reply. 

Here  there  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  during 
which  we  will  take  the  opportunity  of  introducing  more 
fully  to  our  readers  the  estimable  Mrs.  Carter  and  her 
daughter.  Mr.  Hamilton  was  right  when  he  associated 
the  resigned  widow  with  his  old  iiaine,  Luella  Blackburn, 
whom  he  had  never  serlousty  thought  of  marrying, 
though  by  way  of  pastime  he  had  frequently  teased,  tor 
mented,  and  Hattered  her.  Luella  was  ambitious,  artful, 
and  designing.  Wealth  and  position  was  the  goal  at 
which  she  aimed.  Both  of  these  she  knew  Ernest  Ham 
ilton  possessed,  and  she  had  felt  greatly  pleased  at  his  ev 
ident  preference.  When,  therefore,  at  the  end  of  his  col 
lege  course  he  left  her  with  a  few  commonplace  remarks, 
such  as  he  would  have  spoken  to  any  familiar  acquaint 
ance,  her  rage  knew  no  bounds ;  and  in  the  anger  of  tha 


LENORA  AND  HEIi  HOTHEK.  1? 

moment  she  resolved,  sooner  or  later,  to  be  revenged 
upon  him. 

Years,  however,  passed  on,  and  a  man  whom  she 
thought  wealthy  offered  her  his  hand.  She  accepted  it, 
and  found,  too  late,  that  she  was  wedded  to  poverty. 
This  aroused  the  evil  of  her  nature  to  such  an  extent,  that 
her  husband's  life  became  one  of  great  unhappiness,  and 
four  years  after  Lenora's  birth,  he  left  her.  Several 
years  later  she  succeeded  in  procuring  a  divorce,  although 
she  still  retained  his  name.  Recently  she  had  heard  of 
his  death,  and  about  the  same  time,  too,  she  heard  that 
the  wife  of  Ernest  Hamilton  was  dying.  Suddenly  a  wild 
scheme  entered  her  mind.  She  would  remove  to  the  vil 
lage  of  Glenwood,  would  ingratiate  herself  into  the  favor 
of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  win  her  confidence  and  love,  and  then, 
when  she  was  dead,  the  rest  she  fancied  would  be  an  easy 
matter,  for  she  knew  that  Mr.  Hamilton  was  weak,  and 
easily  flattered. 

For  several  weeks  they  had  been  in  Glenwood,  impa 
tiently  waiting  an  opportunity  for  making  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  Hamiltons.  But  as  neither  Margaret  nor 
Carrie  called,  Lenora  became  discouraged,  and  one  day 
exclaimed,  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  are  going 
to  do.  There  is  no  probability  of  that  proud  Mag's  call 
ing  on  me.  How  1  hate  her,  with  her  big  black  eyes  and 
hateful  ways ! " 

" Patience,  patience,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  "I'll  manage 
it ;  as  Mrs.  Hamilton  is  sick,  it  will  be  perfectly  proper 
for  me  to  go  and  see  her;"  and  then  was  planned  the 
visit  which  we  have  described. 

"  Oh,  won't  it  be  grand !  "  said  Lenora,  that  night,  aa 
she  sat  sipping  her  tea,  "  Won't  it  be  grand,  if  you  do 
succeed,  and  won't  I  lord  it  over  Miss  Margaret !  As 
for  that  little  white-faced  Carrie,  she's  too  insipid  foj 


18  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

one  to  trouble  herself  about,  and  I  dare  say  thinks  you 
a  very  nice  woman,  for  how  can  her  Sabbath-sehoo1 
teacher  be  otherwise;"  and  a  satirical  laugh  echoed 
through  the  room.  Suddenly  springing  up,  Lenora 
glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  turning  to  her 
mother,  said,  "  Did  you  hear  when  Walter  is  expected, 
and  am  I  so  very  ugly  looking  ?  " 

While  Mrs.  Carter  is  preparing  an  answer  to  the  first 
question,  we,  for  the  sake  of  our  readers,  will  answer  the 
last  one.  Lenora  was  a  little,  dark-looking  girl,  about 
eighteen  years  of  age.  Her  eyes  were  black,  her  face 
was  black,  and  her  hair  was  black,  standing  out  from  her 
head  in  short,  thick  curls,  which  gave  to  her  features  a 
strange,  witch-like  expression.  From  her  mother  she 
had  inherited  the  same  sweet,  cooing  voice,  the  same 
gliding,  noiseless  footsteps,  which  had  led  some  of  their 
acquaintance  to  accuse  them  of  what,  in  the  days  of  New 
England  witchcraft,  would  have  secured  their  passport  to 
another  world. 

Lenora  had  spoken  truthfully  when  she  said  that  she  had 
not  been  trained  by  such  a  mother  for  nothing,  for  what 
ever  of  evil  appeared  in  her  conduct  was  more  the  result 
of  her  mother's  training  than  of  a  naturally  bad  disposi 
tion.  At  times,  her  mother  petted  and  caressed  her,  and 
again,  in  a  fit  of  ill  humor,  drove  her  from  the  room, 
taunting  her  with  the  strong  resemblance  which  she  boro 
to  the  man  whom  she  had  once  called  father !  On  such 
occasions,  Lenora  was  never  at  a  loss  for  words,  and  the 
scenes  which  sometimes  occurred  were  too  disgraceful 
for  repetition.  On  one  subject,  however,  they  were 
united,  and  that  was  in  their  efforts  to  become  inmatea 
of  the  Homestead  on  the  Hillside.  In  the  accomplish' 
incut  of  this,  Lenora  had  a  threefold  object :  first,  it 
would  secure  her  a  luxuriant  home ;  second,  she  would 


LEXOBA  AND  HER  MOTHER.  19 

be  thrown  in  the  way  of  Walter  Hamilton,  who  wag 
about  finishing  his  college  course ;  and  last,  though  not 
least,  it  would  be  such  a  triumph  over  Margaret,  who,  she 
fancied,  treated  her  with  cold  indifference. 

Long  after  the  hour  of  midnight  was  rung  from  the 
village  clock,  the  widow  and  her  daughter  sat  by  their 
fireside,  forming  plans  for  the  future,  and  when  at  last 
they  retired  to  sleep,  it  was  to  dream  of  funeral  proces 
sions,  bridal  favors,  step-children,  half-sisters,  and  double 
connections  all  around. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

ONE     STEP      TOWARD     THE     HOMESTEAD. 

WEEKS  passed  on,  and  so  necessary  to  the  comfort  of 
the  invalid  did  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Carter  become,  that 
at  last,  by  particular  request,  she  took  up  her  abode  at 
the  homestead,  becoming  Mrs.  Hamilton's  constant  nurse 
and  attendant.  Lenora,  for  the  time  being,  was  sent  to 
the  house  of  a  friend,  who  lived  not  far  distant.  When 
Margaret  Hamilton  learned  of  the  arrangement,  she  op 
posed  it  with  all  her  force. 

"Send  her  away,  mother,"  said  she  one  evening; 
"  please  send  her  away,  for  I  cannot  endure  her  presence, 
with  her  oily  words  and  silent  footsteps.  She  reminds 
me  of  the  serpent,  who  decoyed  Eve  into  eating  that  ap 
ple,  and  I  always  feel  an  attack  of  the  nightmare,  when 
ever  I  know  that  her  big,  black  eyes  are  fastened  upon 
me." 

"  How  differently  people  see,"  laughed  Carrie,  who  was 


£0  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

sitting  by.  "  Why,  Mag,  I  always  fancy  her  to  be  in  a 
nightmare  when  your  big  eyes  light  upon  her." 

"  It's  because  she  knows  she's  guilty,"  answered  Mag, 
her  words  and  manner  warming  up  with  the  subject. 
"Say,  mother,  won't  you  send  her  off?  It  seems  as 
though  a  dark  shadow  falls  upon  us  all  the  moment  she 
enters  the  house." 

"  She  is  too  invaluable  a  nurse  to  be  discharged  for  a 
slight  whim,"  answered  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "  Besides,  she 
bears  the  best  of  reputations,  and  I  don't  see  what  possi 
ble  harm  can  come  of  her  being  here." 

Margaret  sighed,  for  though  she  knew  full  well  the  "  pos 
sible  harm  "  which  might  come  of  it,  she  could  not  tell  it 
to  her  pale,  dying  mother;  and  ere  she  had  time  for  any 
answer,  the  black  bombasin  dress,  white  linen  collar,  and 
white,  smooth  face  of  Widow  Carter  moved  silently  into 
the  room.  There  was  a  gleam  of  intense  hatred  hi  the 
dark  eyes  which  for  a  moment  flashed  on  Margaret's  face, 
and  then  a  soft  hand  gently  stroked  the  glossy  hair  of 
the  indignant  girl,  and  in  the  most  musical  tones  imagina 
ble,  a  low  voice  murmured,  "  Maggie,  dear,  you  look 
flushed  and  wearied.  Are  you  quite  well  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so,"  answered  Margaret ;  and  then  rising, 
she  left  the  room,  but  not  until  she  had  heard  her  mother 
say,  "  Dear  Mrs.  Carter,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come !  " 

"  Is  everybody  bewitched,"  thought  Mag,  as  she  re 
paired  to  her  chamber,  "  father,  mother,  Carrie,  and  all  ? 
How  I  wish  Walter  was  here.  He  always  sees  things  as 
I  do." 

Margaret  Hamilton  was  a  high  spirited,  intelligent  girl, 
about  nineteen  years  of  age.  She  was  not  beautiful,  but 
had  you  asked  for  the  finest  looking  girl  in  all  Glenwood, 
Mag  would  surely  have  been  pointed  out.  She  was 
rather  above  the  medium  height,  and  in  her  whole  bear* 


ONE  STEP  TOWAED  THE  HOMESTEAD.  21 

ing  there  was  a  quiet  dignity,  which  many  mistook  lot 
hauteur.  Naturally  frank,  affectionate,  and  kind-hearted, 
she  was,  perhaps,  a  little  strong  in  her  prejudices,  which, 
when  once  satisfactorily  formed,  could  not  easily  be> 
shaken. 

For  Mrs.  Carter  she  had  conceived  a  strong  dislike,  for 
she  believed  her  to  be  an  artful,  hypocritical  woman. ; 
and  now,  as  she  sat  by  the  window  in  her  room,  her  heart 
swelled  with  indignation  toward  one  who  had  thus 
usurped  her  place  by  her  mother's  bedside,  whom  Car 
rie  was  learning  to  confide  in,  and  of  whom  even  the 
father  said,  "  she  is  a  most  excellent  woman." 

"  I  will  write  to  Walter,"  said  she,  "  and  tell  him  to 
come  immediately." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  drew  up  her  wri 
ting  desk,  and  soon  a  finished  letter  was  lying  before  her. 
Ere  she  had  time  to  fold  and  direct  it,  a  loud  cry  from 
her  young  brother  Willie,  summoned  her  for  a  few  mo 
ments  from  the  room,  and  on  her  return,  she  met  in  the 
doorway  the  black  bombasin  and  linen  collar. 

"  Madam,"  said  she,  "  did  you  wish  for  anything  ?  '•' 

"  Yes,  dear,"  was  the  soft  answer,  which,  however,  in 
this  case  failed  to  turn  away  wrath.  "  Yes,  dear,  your 
mother  said  you  knew  where  there  were  some  fine  bits 
of  linen." 

"  And  could  not  Carrie  come  for  them  ?  "  asked  Mag. 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  she  looks  so  delicate  that  I  do  not  like 
to  send  her  up  these  long  stairs  oftener  than  is  necessary. 
Haven't  you  noticed  how  pale  she  is  getting  of  late '?  I 
shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised ; "  but  before  the  sen 
tence  was  finished,  the  linen  was  found,  and  the  door 
closed  upon  Mrs.  Carter. 

A  new  idea  had  been  awakened  in  Margaret's  mind, 
and  for  the  first  time  she  thought  how  much  her  sister  ro 


22  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

ally  had  changed.  Carrie,  who  was  four  years  younger 
than  Margaret,  had  ever  been  delicate,  and  her  parents 
had  always  feared  that  not  long  could  they  keep  her ;  but 
though  each  whiter  her  cough  had  returned  with  in 
creased  severity,  though  the  veins  on  her  white  brow 
grew  more  distinct,  and  her  large,  blue  eyes  glowed  with 
unwonted  luster,  still  Margaret  had  never  before  dreamed 
of  danger,  never  thought  that  soon  her  sister's  voice 
would  be  missed,  and  that  Carrie  would  be  gone.  But 
she  thought  of  it  now,  and  laying  her  head  upon  the  ta 
ble,  wept  for  a  time  in  silence. 

At  length,  drying  her  tears,  she  folded  her  letter  and 
took  it  to  the  post-office.  As  she  was  returning  home, 
she  was  met  by  a  servant,  who  exclaimed,  "  Run,  Miss 
Margaret,  run ;  your  mother  is  dying,  and  Mrs.  Carter 
sent  me  for  you !  " 

Swift  as  the  mountain  chamois,  Margaret  sped  up  the 
long,  steep  hill,  and  in  a  few  moments  stood  within  her 
mother's  sick-room.  Supported  in  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Car 
ter  lay  the  dying  woman,  while  her  eyes,  already  over 
shadowed  with  the  mists  of  coming  death,  wandered  anx 
iously  around  the  room,  as  if  in  quest  of  some  one.  Tho 
moment  Margaret  appeared,  a  satisfied  smile  broke  over 
her  wasted  features,  and  beckoning  her  daughter  to  her 
bedside,  she  whispered,  "  Dear  Maggie,  you  did  not  think 
I'd  die  so  soon,  when  you  went  away." 

A  burst  of  tears  was  Maggie's  only  answer,  as  she  pas- 
sionately  kissed  the  cold,  white  lips,  which  had  never 
breathed  aught  to  her  save  words  of  love  and  gentleness 
Far  different,  however,  would  have  been  her  reply,  had 
she  known  the  reason  of  her  mother's  question.  TsTot 
long  after  she  had  left  the  house  for  the  office,  Mrs. 
Hamilton  had  been  taken  worse,  and  the  physician,  who 
chanced  to  be  present,  pronounced  her  dying.  Instantly 


ONE  STEP  TOWARD  THE  HOMESTEAD.  2** 

the  alarmed  husband  summoned  together  his  household, 
but  Mag  was  missing.  No  one  had  seen  her ;  no  one 
knew  where  she  was,  until  Mrs.  Carter,  who  had  been 
some  little  time  absent  from  the  room,  reentered  it,  say- 
ing,  "  Margaret  had  started  for  the  post-office  with  a  let 
ter,  when  I  sent  a  servant  to  tell  her  of  her  mother's  dan 
ger,  but  for  some  reason  she  kept  on,  though  I  dare  say 
she  will  soon  be  back." 

As  we  well  know,  the  substance  of  this  speech  waa 
true,  though  the  impression  which  Mrs.  Carter's  words 
conveyed  was  entirely  false.  For  the  advancement  of  her 
own  cause,  she  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  weaken  the 
high  estimation  in  which  Mr.  Hamilton  held  his  daugh 
ter,  and  she  fancied  that  the  mother's  death-bed  was  as 
fitting  a  place  where  to  commence  operations  as  she  could 
select. 

As  Margaret  hung  over  her  mother's  pillow,  the  false 
woman,  as  if  to  confirm  the  assertion  she  had  made, 
leaned  forward  and  said,  "  Robin  told  you,  I  suppose  ?  I 
sent  him  to  do  so." 

Margaret  nodded  assent,  while  a  deeper  gloom  fell 
upon  the  brow  of  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  stood  with  folded 
arms,  watching  the  advance  of  the  great  destroyer.  It 
came  at  last,  and  though  no  perceptible  change  heralded 
its  approach,  there  was  one  fearful  spasm,  one  long  drawn 
sigh,  a  striving  of  the  eye  for  one  more  glimpse  of  the 
loved  ones  gathered  near,  and  then  Mrs.  Hamilton  was 
dead.  On  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Carter  her  life  was  breathed 
away,  and  when  all  was  over,  that  lady  laid  gently  down 
her  burden,  carefully  adjusted  the  tumbled  covering,  and 
then  stepping  to  the  window,  looked  out,  while  the 
Gtricken  group  deplored  their  loss. 

Long  and  bitterly  over  their  dead  they  wept,  but  not 
on  one  of  that  weeping  band  fell  the  bolt  so  crush ingly 


24  THE  HOMESTEAD  OX  THE  IIILLSIDE. 

as  upon  Willie,  the  youngest  of  the  flock,  the  child  four 
summers  old,  who  had  ever  lived  in  the  light  of  his  moth 
er's  love.  They  had  told  him  she  would  die,  but  he  un 
derstood  them  not,  for  never  before  had  he  looked  on 
death;  and  now,  when  to  his  childish  words  of  love 
his  mother  made  no  answer,  most  piteously  rang  out 
the  infantile  cry,  "Mother,  oh,  my  mother,  who'll  be  my 
mother  now  ?  " 

Caressingly,  a  small,  white  hand  was  laid  on  Willie's 
yellow  curls,  but  ere  the  words  of  love  were  spoken, 
Margaret  took  the  little  fellow  in  her  arms,  and  whis 
pered,  through  her  tears,  "  I'll  be  your  mother,  darling." 

Willie  brushed  the  tear-drops  from  his  sister's  cheek, 
and  laying  his  fail',  round  face  upon  her  neck,  said,  "  And 
who'll  be  Maggie's  mother  ?  Mrs.  Carter  ?  " 

"Never !  never  !  "  answered  Mag,  while  to  the  glance 
of  hatred  and  defiance  cast  upon  her,  she  returned  one 
equally  scornful  and  determined. 

Soon  from  the  village  there  came  words  of  sympathy 
and  offers  of  assistance;  but  Mrs.  Carter. could  do  every 
thing,  and  in  her  blandest  tones  she  declined  the  services 
of  the  neighbors,  refusing  even  to  admit  them  into  the 
presence  of  Margaret  and  Carrie,  who,  she  said,  were  so 
much  exhausted  as  to  be  unable  to  bear  the  fresh  burst 
of  grief  which  the  sight  of  an  old  friend  would  surely 
produce.  So  the  neighbors  went  home,  and,  as  the  world 
will  ever  do,  descanted  upon  the  probable  result  of  Mrs. 
Carter's  labors  at  the  homestead.  Thus,  ere  Ernest  Ham 
ilton  had  been  three  days  a  widower,  many  in  fancy  had 
wedded  him  to  Mrs  Carter,  saying  that  nowhere  'could 
he  find  so  good  a  mother  for  his  children. 

'  And   truly  she   did  seem  to  be   indispensable  in  that 
honsa  of  mourning.     'Twas  she  who  saw  that  everything 
was  done,  quietly  and  in  order;  'twas  she  who  so  neatly 
B 


ONE  STEP  TOWARD  THE  HOMESTEAD.  25 

arranged  the  muslin  shroud ;  't  was  her  arms  that  sup 
ported  the  half  faulting  Carrie  when  first  her  eye  rested 
on  her  mother,  coffined  for  the  grave ;  't  was  she  who 
whispered  words  of  comfort  to  the  desolate  husband ;  and 
she,  too,  it  was,  who,  on  the  night  when  Walter  was  ex 
pected  home,  kindly  sat  up  until  past  midnight  to  receive" 
him! 

She  had  read  Mag's  letter,  and  by  being  first  to  welcome 
the  young  man  home,  she  hoped  to  remove  from  his  mind 
any  prejudice  which  he  might  feel  for  her,  and  by  her 
bland  smiles  and  gentle  words  to  lure  him  into  the  belief 
that  she  was  perfect,  and  Margaret  uncharitable.  Par 
tially  she  succeeded,  too,  for  when  next  morning  Mag 
expressed  a  desire  that  Mrs.  Carter  would  go  home,  he 
replied,  "  I  think  you  judge  her  wrongfully ;  she  seems  to 
be  a  most  amiable,  kind-hearted  woman." 

-"  Et  tu,  Brute  I "  Mag  could  have  said,  but 't  was  nei 
ther  the  time  nor  the  place,  and  linking  her  arm  within  her 
brother's,  she  led  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  where 
stood  their  mother's  coffin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

APTEK    THE    BURIAL. 

ACROSS  the  bright  waters  of  the  silvery  lake  which  lay 
not  far  from  Glenwood  village,  over  the  grassy  hillside, 
and  down  the  long,  green  valley,  had  floated  the  notes  of 
the  tolling  bell.  In  the  Hamilton  mansion,  sympathizing 
friends  had  gathered,  and  through  the  crowded  parlors  a 
solemn  hush  had  reigned,  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  the 
white-haired  man  of  God,  who  in  trembling  tones  prayed 


26  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

for  the  bereaved  ones.  Over  the  costly  coffin  tear-wet 
faces  had  bent,  and  on  the  marble  features  of  her  who 
slept  within  it,  had  been  pressed  the  passionate  kisses  of 
a  long,  a  last  farewell. 

Through  the  shady  garden  and  across  the  running 
brook,  whose  waters  this  day  murmured  more  sadly  than 
't  was  their  wont  to  do,  the  funeral  train  had  passed ;  and 
in  the  dark,  moist  earth,  by  the  side  of  many  other  still, 
pale  sleepers,  who  offered  no  remonstrance  when  among 
them  another  came,  they  haft  buried  the  departed. 
From  the  windows  of  the  homestead  lights  were  gleam 
ing,  and  in  the  common  sitting-room  sat  Ernest  Hamilton, 
and  by  his  side  his  four  motherless  children.  In  the 
stuffed  arm  chair,  sacred  for  the  sake  of  one  who  had 
called  it  hers,  reclined  the  black  boinbasin  and  linen  collar 
of  Widow  Carter ! 

She  had,  as  she  said,  fully  intended  to  return  home  im 
mediately  after  the  burial,  but  there  were  so  many  little 
things  to  be  seen  to,  so  much  to  be  done,  which  Margaret, 
of  course,  did  not  feel  like  doing,  that  she  decided  to  stay 
until  after  supper,  together  with  Lenora,  who  had  come 
to  the  funeral.  When  supper  was  over,  and  there  was  no 
longer  an  excuse  for  lingering,  she  found,  very  greatly  to 
her  surprise  and  chagrin,  no  doubt,  that  the  clouds  which 
all  day  had  looked  dark  and  angry,  were  now  pour'jig 
rain. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  great  apparent 
distress ;  then  stepping  to  the  door  of  the  sitting-room, 
she  said,  "  Maggie,  dear,  can  you  lend  me  an  umbrella  ?  It 
is  raining  very  hard,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  go  home  with- 
out  one ;  I  will  send  it  back  to-morrow." 

"Certainly,"  answered  Margaret.  "Umbrella  and 
overshoes,  too ;"  and  rising,  she  left  the  room  to  procure 
them. 


AFTEK  THE  EUKIAL,  27 

"  But  you  surely  are  not  going  out  in  this  storm,  "  said 
Mr.  Hamilton ;  while  Carrie,  who  really  liked  Mrs.  Car 
ter,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  more  lonely  when  she  was 
gone,  exclaimed  eagerly,  "  Oh,  don't  leave  us  to-night, 
Mrs.  Carter.  Don't." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  must,"  was  the  answer,  while  Mr.  Ham 
ilton  continued :  "  You  had  better  stay  ;  but  if  you  insist 
upon  going,  I  will  order  the  carriage,  as  you  must  not 
walk." 

"  Kather  than  put  you  to  all  that  trouble,  I  will  re 
main,"  said  Mrs.  Carter ;  and  when  Mag  returned  with 
two  umbrellas  and  two  pair  of  overshoes,  she  found  the 
widow  comfortably  seated  in  her  mother's  arm  chair, 
while  on  the  stool  at  her  side,  sat  Lenora  looking  not  unlike 
a  little  imp,  with  her  wild,  black  face,  and  short,  thick  curls. 

Walter  Hamilton  bad  not  had  much  opportunity  for 
scanning  the  face  of  Mrs.  Carter,  but  now,  as  she  sat 
there  with  the  firelight  flickering  over  her  features,  he 
fancied  that  he  could  trace  marks  of  the  treacherous  de 
ceit  of  which  Mag  had  warned  him ;  and  when  the  full 
black  eyes  rested  upon  Margaret,  he  failed  not  to  note 
the  glance  of  scorn  which  flashed  from  them,  and  which 
changed  to  a  look  of  affectionate  regard  the  moment  she 
saw  she  was  observed.  "There  is  something  wronjr 

o  o 

about  her,"  thought  he,  "  and  the  next  time  I  am  alone 
with  Mag  I'll  ask  what  it  is  she  fears  from  this  woman." 

That  night,  in  the  solitude  of  their  room,  mother  and 
child  communed  together  as  follows:  "I  do  believe, 
mother,  you  are  twin  sister  to  the  old  one  himself.  Why, 
who  would  have  thought,  when  first  you  made  that 
friendly  visit,  that  in  five  weeks'  time  both  of  us  would 
be  snugly  ensconced  in  the  best  chamber  of  the  home- 
stead  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  we  are  in  the  best  chamber,  you  are 


28  THE    HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

greatly  mistaken,"  replied  Mrs.  Carter.  "Margaret 
Hamilton  has  power  enough  yet  to  keep  us  out  of  that, 
Didn't  she  look  crest-fallen,  though,  when  she  found  I  was 
going  to  stay,  notwithstanding  her  very  disinterested 
offer  of  umbrellas  and  overshoes  ?  but  I'll  pay  it  aJl  back 
when  I  become " 

"  Mistress  of  the  house,"  added  Lenora.  "  Why  not 
speak  out  plainly?  Or  are  you  afraid  the  walls  have  ears, 
and  that  the  devoted  Mrs.  Carter's  speeches  would  not 
sound  well,  repeated  ?  Oh,  how  sanctimonious  you  did 
look,  to-day,  when  you  were  talking  pious  to  Carrie !  I 
actually  had  to  force  a  sneeze,  to  keep  from  laughing 
outright,  though  she,  little  simpleton,  swallowed  it  all, 
and  I  dare  say  wonders  where  you  keep  your  wings ! 
But  really,  mother,  I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  pet  her  so 
always,  for  'twould  be  more  than  it's  worth  to  see  it." 

"  I  guess  I  know  how  to  manage,"  returned  Mrs.  Car 
ter.  "  There's  nothing  will  win  a  parent's  affection  so 
soon  as  to  pet  the  children." 

"  And  so  I  suppose  you  expect  Mr.  Hamilton  to  pet 
this  beautiful  child ! "  said  Lenora,  laughing  loudly  at 
the  idea,  and  waltzing  back  and  forth  before  the  mirror. 

"  Lenora !  behave ;  I  will  not  see  you  conduct  so," 
said  the  widow;  to  which  the  young  lady  replied,  "  Shut 
your  eyes,  and  then  you  can't !  " 

Meantime,  an  entirely  different  conversation  was  going 
on  in  another  part  of  the  house,  where  sat  "Walter  Ham 
ilton,  with  his  arm  thrown  affectionately  around  Mag, 
who  briefly  told  of  what  she  feared  would  result  from 
Mrs.  Carter's  intimacy  at  their  house. 

"  Impossible ! "  said  the  young  man,  starting  to  his 
feet.  "Impossible!  our  father  has  too  much  sense  to 
marry  again,  any  way,  and  much  move,  to  marry  one  so 
greatly  inferior  to  our  own  dear  mother." 


AFTER  THE  BUEIAL.  29 

"I  hope  it  may  prove  so,"  answered  Mag  ;  "but,  with 
all  due  respect  for  our  father,  you  know  and  I  know  that 
mother's  was  the  stronger  mind,  the  controlling  spirit ; 
and  now  that  she  is  gone,  father  will  be  more  easily  de 
ceived." 

Margaret  told  the  truth ;  for  her  mother  had  possessed 
a  strong  intelligent  mind,  and  was  greatly  the  superior  of 
her  father,  who,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  was  rather 
weak,  and  easily  flattered.  Always  sincere  himself  in 
what  he  said,  he  could  not  believe  that  other  people  were 
aught  than  what  they  seemed  to  be,  and  thus  oftentimes 
his  confidence  had  been  betrayed  by  those  in  whom  he 
trusted.  As  yet,  he  had,  of  course,  entertained  no  thought 
of  ever  making  Mrs.  Carter  his  wife ;  but  her  society  was 
agreeable,  her  words  and  manner  soothing,  and  when,  on 
the  day  following  the  burial,  she  actually  took  her  depar 
ture,  bag,  baggage,  Lenora,  and  all,  he  felt  how  doubly 
lonely  was  the  old  homestead,  and  wondered  why  she 
could  not  stayt  There  was  room  enough,  and  then  Mar 
garet  was  too  young  to  assume  the  duties  of  housekeeper. 
Other  men,  in  similar  circumstances,  had  hired  house 
keepers,  and  why  could  not  he  ?  He  would  speak  to  Mag 
about  it  that  very  night.  But  when  evening  came,  Wal 
ter,  Carrie,  and  Willie  all  were  present,  and  he  found 
no  opportunity  of  seeing  Margaret  alone  ;  neither  did  any 
occur  until  after  Walter  had  returned  to  college,  which 
he  did  the  week  following  his  mother's  death. 

That  night  the  little  parlor  at  the  cottage  where  dwelt 
the  Widow  Carter,  looked  unusually  snug  and  cozy.  It 
was  autumn,  and  as  the  evenings  were  rather  cool,  a 
cheerful  wood  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth.  Before  it 
stood  a  tasteful  little  workstand,  near  which  were  seated 
Lenora  and  her  mother,  the  one  industriously  knitting, 
and  the  other  occasionally  touching  the  strings  of  her 


30  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

guitar,  wmch  was  suspended  from  her  neck  by  a  crimson 
ribbon.  On  the  sideboard  stood  a  fruit  dish  loaded  with 
red  and  golden  apples,  and  near  it  a  basket  filled  with  the 
rich  purple  grapes. 

That  day  in  the  street  Lenora  had  met  Mr.  Hamilton, 
who  asked  if  her  mother  would  be  at  home  that  evening, 
saying  he  intended  to  call  for  the  purpose  of  settling  the 
bill  which  he  owed  her  for  services  rendered  to  his  fam 
ily  in  their  late  affliction. 

"  When  I  once  get  him  here,  I  will  keep  him  as  long  as 
possible,"  said  Mrs.  Carter;  "and,  Lenora,  child,  if  he  stays 
late,  say  till  nine  o'clock,  you  had  better  go  quietly  to  bed." 

"  Or  into  the  next  room,  and  listen,"  thought  Lenora. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  and  on  the  graveled  walk  there 
was  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  in  a  moment  Ern 
est  Hamilton  stood  in  the  room,  shaking  the  warm  hand 
of  the  widow,  who  was  delighted  to  see  him,  but  so  sorry 
to  find  him  looking  pale  and  thin!  Rejecting  a  seat  in 
the  comfortable  rocking-chair,  which  Lenora  pushed 
toward  him,  he  proceeded  at  once  to  business,  and  taking 
from  his  purse  fifteen  dollars,  passed  them  toward  Mrs. 
Carter,  asking  if  that  would  remunerate  her  for  the  three 
weeks'  services  in  his  family. 

But  Mrs.  Carter  thrust  them  aside,  saying,  "  Sit  down, 
Mr.  Hamilton,  sit  down.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  ask  you 
about  Maggie  and  dear  Carrie's  health." 

"  And  sweet  little  Willie,"  chimed  in  Lenora. 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Hamilton  sat  down,  and  so  fast  did 
Mrs.  Carter  talk,  that  the  clock  was  pointing  to  half  past 
eight  ere  he  got  another  chance  to  offer  his  bills.  Then, 
with  the  look  of  a  much  injured  woman,  Mrs.  Carter  de 
clined  the  money,  saying,  "  Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Hamilton, 
that  you  suppose  my  services  can  be  bought !  What  I 
did  for  your  wife,  I  would  do  for  any  one  who  needed 


AFTER  THE  BTJEIAL.  31 

me,  though  for  but  few  could  I  entertain  the  same  feel 
ings  I  did  for  her.  Short  as  was  our  acquaintance,  she 
seemed  to  me  like  a  beloved  sister ;  and  now  that  she  is 
gone,  I  feel  that  we  have  lost  an  invaluable  treasure " 

Here  Mrs.  Carter  broke  down  entirely,  and  was  obliged 
to  raise  her  cambric  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  while  Le- 
nora  walked  to  the  window  to  conceal  her  emotions, 
whatever  they  might  have  been !  When  the  agitation  of 
the  company  had  somewhat  subsided,  Mr.  Hamilton 
again  insisted,  and  again  Mrs.  Carter  refused.  At  last, 
finding  her  perfectly  inexorable,  he  proceeded  to  express 
his  warmest  thanks  and  deepest  gratitude  for  what  she 
had  done,  saying  he  should  ever  feel  indebted  to  her  for 
her  great  kindness;  then,  as  the  clock  struck  nine,  he 
arose  to  go,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Career's  zealous  efforts  to  de 
tain  him  longer. 

"  Call  again,"  said  she,  as  she  lighted  him  to  the  door ; 
"call  again,  and  we  will  talk  over  old  times,  when  we 
were  young,  and  lived  in  New  Haven !  " 

Mr.  Hamilton  started,  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face, 
exclaimed,  "Luella  Blackburn!  It  is  as  I  at  first  sus 
pected  ;  but  who  would  have  thought  it !  " 

"Yes,  —  I  am  Luella,*  said  Mrs.  Carter;  "though 
greatly  changed,  I  trust,  from  the  Luella  you  once  knew, 
and  of  whom  even  I  have  no  very  pleasant  reminiscences ; 
but  call  again,  and  I  will  tell  you  of  many  of  your  old 
classmates." 

Mr.  Hamilton  would  have  gone  almost  anywhere  for 
the  sake  of  hearing  from  his  classmates,  many  of  whom 
he  greatly  esteemed ;  and  as  in  this  case  the  "anywhere" 
was  only  at  Widow  Carter's,  the  idea  was  not  altogether 
distasteful-to  him,  and  when  he  bade  her  good  night,  he 
was  under  a  promise  to  call  again  soon.  All  hopes,  how 
ever,  of  procuring  her  for  his  housekeeper  were  given  up, 


82  1HE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

for  if  she  resented  his  offer  of  payment  for  what  she  had 
already  done,  she  surely  would  be  doubly  indignant  at  his 
last  proposed  plan.  After  becoming  convinced  of  this 
fact,  it  is  a  little  strange  how  suddenly  he  found  that  he 
did  not  need  a  housekeeper — that  Margaret,  who  before 
could  not  do  at  all,  could  now  do  very  well  —  as  well  as 
anybody.  And  Margaret  did  do  well,  both  as  house 
keeper  and  mother  of  little  Willie,  who  seemed  to  have 
transferred  to  her  the  affection  he  had  borne  for  his 
mother. 

At  intervals  during  the  autumn,  Mrs.  Carter  called,  al 
ways  giving  a  world  of  good  advice,  patting  Carrie's  pale 
cheek,  kissing  Willie,  and  then  going  away.  But  as  none 
of  her  calls  were  ever  returned,  they  gradually  became 
less  frequent,  and  as  the^  winter  advanced,  ceased  alto 
gether  ;  while  Margaret,  hearing  nothing  and  seeing  no 
thing,  began  to  forget  her  fears,  and  to  laugh  at  them  as 
having  been  groundless. 


CHAPTER  V. 

KATE       KIKBY. 

THE  little  brooklet,  which  danced  so  merrily  by  the 
homestead  burial-place,  and  then  flowed  on  in  many 
graceful  turns  and  evolutions,  finally  lost  itself  in  a  glossy 
mill-pond,  whose  waters,  when  the  forest  trees  were 
stripped  of  their  foliage,  gleamed  and  twinkled  in  the 
smoky  autumn  light,  or  lay  cold  and  still  beneath  the 
breath  of  winter.  During  this  season  of  the  year,  from 
the  upper  windows  of  the  homestead  the  rnill-pond  was 


KATE  KIEBY.  33 

discernible,  together  with  a  small  red  building  which 
stood  upon  its  banks. 

For  many  years  this  house  had  been  occupied  by  Mr. 
Kirby,  who  had  been  a  schoolboy  with  Ernest  Hamilton, 
and  who,  though  naturally  intelligent,  had  never  aspired 
to  any  higher  employment  than  that  of  being  miller  on 
the  farm  of  his  old  friend.  Three  years  before  our  story 
opens,  Mr.  Kirby  had  died,  and  a  stranger  had  been  em 
ployed  to  take  his  place.  Mrs.  Kirby,  however,  was  so 
much  attached  to  her  woodland  home  and  its  forest  scen 
ery,  that  she  still  continued  to  occupy  the  low  red  house 
together  with  her  daughter  Kate,  who  sighed  for  no  bet 
ter  or  more  elegant  home,  although  rumor  whispered  that 
there  was  in  store  for  her  a  far  more  costly  dwelling,  even 
the  "  Homestead  on  the  Hillside." 

Currently  was  it  reported,  that  during  Walter  Hamil 
ton's  vacations,  the  winding  footpath,  which  followed  the 
course  of  the  streamlet  down  to  the  mill-pond,  was  trod 
den  more  frequently  than  usual.  The  postmaster's  wife, 
too,  had  hinted  strongly  of  certain  ominous  letters  from 
New  Haven,  which  regularly  came  directed  to  Kate, 
when  Walter  was  not  at  home;  so,  putting  together 
these  two  facts,  and  adding  to  them  the  high  estimation 
in  which  Mrs.  Kirby  and  her  daughter  were  known  to  be 
held  by  the  Hamiltons,  it  was  generally  conceded  that 
there  could  be  no  shadow  of  doubt  concerning  the  state 
of  affairs  between  the  heir  apparent  of  the  old  homestead 
and  the  daughter  of  the  poor  miller. 

Kate  was  a  universal  favorite,  and  by  nearly  all  was  it 
nought,  that  in  everything  save  money  she  was  fully  tlie 
equal  of  Walter  Hamilton.  To  a  face  and  form  of  the 
most  perfect  beauty,  she  added  a  degree  of  intelligence 
and  sparkling  wit,  which,  in  ah1  the  rides,  parties,  and 
fetes  given  by  the  young  people  of  Glen  wood,  caused  her 

"B*  3 


34  THE  HOMESTEAD   ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

society  to  be  chosen  in  preference  to  those  whose  fathers 
counted  their  money  by  thousands. 

A  few  there  were  who  said  that  Kate's  long  intimacy 
with  Margaret  Hamilton  had  made  her  proud ;  but  in  the 
rude  dwellings  and  crazy  tenements  which  skirted  the 
borders  of  Glenwood  village,  was  many  a  blind  old  wo 
man,  and  many  a  hoary-headed  man,  who,  in  their  daily 
prayers,  remembered  the  beautiful  Kate,  the  "  fair  forest- 
flower,"  who  came  so  oft  among  them  with  her  sweet 
young  face  and  gentle  words.  For  Kate,  both  Margaret 
and  Carrie  Hamilton  already  felt  a  sisterly  aifection,  while 
their  father  smiled  graciously  upon  her,  secretly  hoping, 
however,  that  his  son  would  make  a  more  brilliant  match, 
but  resolving  not  to  interfere,  if  at  last  his  choice  should 
fall  upon  her. 

One  afternoon,  early  in  April,  as  Margaret  sat  in  her 
chamber,  busy  upon  a  piece  of  needle-work,  the  door 
goftly  opened,  and  a  mass  of  bright  chestnut  curls  became 
visible ;  next  appeared  the  laughing  blue  eyes ;  and  fi 
nally  the  whole  of  Kate  Kirby  bounded  into  the  room, 
saying,  "Good  afternoon,  Maggie;  are  you  very  busy, 
and  wish  I  hadn't  come  ?  " 

"  I  am  never  too  busy  to  see  you,"  answered  Margaret, 
at  the  same  time  pushing  toward  Kate  the  little  ottoman, 
on  which  she  always  sat  when  in  that  room. 

Kate  took  the  proffered  seat,  and  throwing  aside  her 
bonnet,  began  with,  "  Maggie,  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing,  though  I  don't  know  as  it  is  quite  right  to  do  so  ; 
still  you  may  as  well  hear  it  from  me  as  any  one." 

"Do  pray  tell,"  answered  Mag,  "I  am  dying  with  cu 
riosity." 

So  Kate  smoothed  down  her  black  silk  apron,  twisted  one 
of  her  curls  into  a  horridly  ugly  shape,  and  commenced 


KATE  KIKBY.  35 

with,  "  What  kind  of  a  woman  is  that  Mrs.  Carter,  do  wit 
in  the  village  ?  " 

Instantly  Margaret's  suspicions  were  roused,  and  start 
ing  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  her,  she  exclaimed,  "  Mrs. 
Carter !  is  it  of  her  you  will  tell  me  ?  She  is  a  most  dan 
gerous  woman — a  woman  whom  your  mother  would  call 
a  '  snake  in  the  grass.'  " 

"Precisely  so,"  answered  Kate.  "That  is  just  what 
mother  says  of  her,  an*d  yet  nearly  all  the  village  are 
ready  to  fall  down  and  worship  her." 

"Let  them,  then,"  said  Mag;  "I  have  no  objections, 
provided  they  keep  their  molten  calf  to  themselves.  No 
one  wants  her  here.  But  what  is  it  about  her  ?  tell  me." 

Briefly  then  Kate  told  how  Mr.  Hamilton  was,  and  for 
a  long  time  had  been,  in  the  habit  of  spending  one  eve 
ning  every  week  with  Mrs.  Carter ;  and  that  people,  not 
without  good  cause,  were  already  pointing  her  out  as  the 
future  mistress  of  the  homestead. 

"  1ST  ever,  never !  "  cried  Mag,  vehemently.  "  1ST  ever 
shall  she  come  here.  She  our  mother,  indeed !  It  shall 
not  be,  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

After  a  little  further  conversation,  Kate  departed,  leaving 
Mag  to  meditate  upon  the  best  means  by  which  to  avert 
the  threatened  evil.  What  Kate  had  told  her  was  true. 
Mr.  Hamilton  had  so  many  questions  to  ask  concerning  his 
old  classmates,  and  Mrs.  Carter  had  so  much  to  tell,  that, 
though  they  had  worked  industriously  all  winter,  they 
were  not  through  yet ;  neither  would  they  be  until  Mrs. 
Carter  found  herself  again  within  the  old  homestead. 

The  night  following  Kate's  visit,  Mag  determined  to 
speak  with  her  father ;  but  immediately  after  tea  he  went 
out,  saying  he  should  not  return  until  nine  o'clock.  With 
a  great  effort  Mag  forced  down  the  angry  words  which  sho 
felt  rising  within  her,  and  then  seating  herself  at 


36  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

she  resolved  to  await  his  return.  JSTot  a  word  on  the  sub 
ject  did  she  say  to  Carrie,  who  retired  to  her  room  at 
half  past  eight,  as  was  her  usual  custom.  Alone,  now, 
Margaret  waited.  Nine,  ten,  eleven  had  been  struck, 
and  then  into  the  sitting-room  came  Mr.  Hamilton,  greatly 
astonished  at  finding  his  daughter  there. 

"  Why,  Margaret,"  said  he,  "  why  are  you  sitting  up 
so  late  ?  » 

"  If  it  is  late  for  me,  it  is  late  for  you,"  answered  Mar 
garet,  who,  now  that  the  trial  had  come,  felt  the  awk 
wardness  of  the  task  she  had  undertaken. 

"But  I  had  business,"  answered  Mr.  Hamilton;  and 
Margaret,  looking  him  steadily  hi  the  face,  asked,  "Is 
not  your  business  of  a  nature  which  equally  concerns  us 
all?" 

A  momentary  flush  passed  over  his  features,  as  he  re 
plied,  "  "What  do  you  mean  ?  I  do  not  comprehend." 

Hurriedly,  and  in  broken  sentences,  Margaret  told  him 
what  she  meant,  and  then  tremblingly  she  waited  for  his 
answer.  Frowning  angrily,  he  spoke  to  his  daughter  the 
first  harsh  words  which  had  ever  passed  his  lips  toward 
either  of  his  children. 

"  Go  to  your  room,  and  don't  presume  to  interfere  with 
me  again.  I  trust  I  am  competent  to  tend  to  my  own 
matters ! " 

Almost  convulsively  Margaret's  arms  closed  round  her 
father's  neck,  as  she  said,  "  Don't  speak  so  to  me,  father. 
You  never  did  before  —  never  would  now,  but  for  her. 
Oh,  father,  promise  me,  by  the  memory  of  my  angel 
mother,  never  to  see  her  again.  She  is  a  base,  designing 
woman." 

Mr.  Hamilton  unwound  his  daughter's  arms  from  his 
Deck,  and  speaking  more  gently,  said,  "  What  proof  have 


KATE  KIKBY.  3j 

you  of  that  assertion  ?  Give  me  proof,  and  I  promise  to 
Ho  your  bidding." 

But  Mag  had  no  such  proof  at  hand,  and  she  could  only 
reiterate  her  suspicions,  her  belief,  which,  of  course,  failed 
to  convince  the  biased  man,  who,  rising,  said,  "Your 
mother  confided  and  trusted  in  her,  so  why  should  not 
you?" 

The  next  moment  Margaret  was  alone.  For  a  long 
time  she  wept,  and  it  was  not  until  the  eastern  horizon 
began  to  grow  gray  in  the  morning  twilight,  that  she 
laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  and  forgot  in  sleep  how 
unhappy  she  had  been.  Her  words,  however,  were  not 
without  their  effect,  for  when  the  night  came  round  on 
which  her  father  was  accustomed  to  pay  his  weekly  visit, 
he  staid  at  home,  spending  the  whole  evening  with  his 
daughters,  and  appearing  really  gratified  at  Margaret's 
efforts  to  entertain  him.  But,  alas!  the  chain  of  the 
widow  was  too  firmly  thrown  around  him  for  a  daugh 
ter's  hand  alone  to  sever  the  fast  bound  links. 

When  the  next  Thursday  evening  came,  Mag  was  con 
fined  to  her  room  by  a  sick  headache,  from  which  she  had 
been  suffering  all  day.  As  night  approached,  she  fre 
quently  asked  if  her  father  were  below.  At  last,  the 
front  door  opened,  and  she  heard  his  step  upon  the  pi 
azza.  Starting  up,  she  hurried  to  the  window,  while  at 
the  same  moment  Mr.  Hamilton  paused,  and  raising  his 
eyes,  saw  the  white  face  of  his  daughter  pressed  against 
the  window-pane,  as  she  looked  imploringly  after  him ; 
but  there  was  not  enough  of  power  in  a  single  look  to  de« 
ter  him,  and,  wafting  her  a  kiss,  he  turned  away.  Sadly 
Margapet  watched  him,  until  he  disappeared  down  tho 
long  hill ;  then,  returning  to  her  couch,  she  wept  bitterly. 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Carter,  who  had  been  greatly  chagrined 
ftt  the  non-appearance  rf  Mr.  Hamilton  the  week  before, 


58  THE    HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

was  now  confidently  expecting  him.  He  had  not  yet 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  the  delay  somewhat  annoyed 
both  herself  and  Lenora. 

"  I  declare,  mother,"  said  Lenora,  •"  I  should  suppose 
you  might  contrive  up  something,  to  b^ag  matters  to  a 
focus.  I  think  it's  perfectly  ridiculous  to  see  two  old 
crones,  who  ought  to  be  trotting  their  grandchildren, 
cooing  and  simpering  away  at  each  other,  and  all  for 
nothing,  too." 

"  Can't  you  be  easy  a  while  longer  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Car- 
ter;  "hasn't  he  said  everything  he  can  say,  except,  'will 
you  marry  me  ? '  " 

"A  very  important  question,  too,"  returned  Lenora; 
"  and  I  don't  know  what  business  you  have  to  expect  any 
thing  from  him  until  it  is  asked." 

•  "  Mr.  Hamilton  is  proud,?'  answered  Mrs.  Carter — "  is 
afraid  of  doing  anything  which  might  possibly  lower  him. 
Now,  if  by  any  means  I  could  make  him  believe  that  I 
had  received  an  offer  from  some  one  fully  if  not  more 
than  his  equal,  I  think  it  would  settle  the  matter,  and  I've 
decided  upon  the  following  plan.  I'll  write  a  proposal 

myself,  sign  old  Judge  B 's  name  to  it,  and  next  time 

Mr.  Hamilton  comes,  let  him  surprise  me  in  reading  it. 
Then,  as  he  is  such  a  dear,  long  tried  friend,  it  will  be 
quite  proper  for  me  to  confide  in  him,  and  ask  his 
advice." 

Lenora's  eyes  opened  wider,  as  she  exclaimed,  "  3fy 
gracious  !  who,  but  you,  would  ever  have  thought  of 
that." 

Accordingly  the  letter  was  written,  scaled,  directed, 
broken  open,  laughed  over,  and  laid  away  in  the  stand 
drawer. 

"Mr.  Hnmilton,  mother,"  said  Lenora,  as  half  an  hour 
afterward,  she  ushered  that  gentleman  into  the  room. 


KATE   KIEBY.  39 

But  so  wholly  absorbed  was  the  black  bombasin  and  linen 
collar  in  the  contents  of  an  open  letter,  which  she  hold  in 
her  hand,  that  the  words  were  twice  repeated, — "  Mr. 
Hamilton,  mother" —  ere  she  raised  her  eyes !  Then  com 
ing  forward  with  well-feigned  confusion,  she  apologized 
for  not  having  observed  him  before,  saying  she  was  sure 
he  would  excuse  her  if  he  knew  the  contents  of  her  letter. 
Of  course  he  wanted  to  know,  and  of  course  she  didn't 
want  to  tell.  He  was  too  polite  to  urge  her,  and  the  con 
versation  soon  took  another  channel. 

After  a  time  Lenora  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Carter, 
again  speaking  of  the  letter,  begged  to  make  a  confidant 
of  Mr.  Hamilton,  and  ask  his  advice.  He  heard  the  let 
ter  read  through,  and  after  a  moment's  silence,  asked, 
"  Do  you  like  him,  Mrs.  Carter  ?" 

"  Why, —  no, —  I  don't  think  I  do,"  said  she,  "  but  then 
the  widow's  lot  is  so  lonely." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  sighed  he,  while  through  the  keyhole 
of  the  opposite  door  came  something  which  sounded  very 
much  like  a  stifled  laugh !  It  was  the  hour  of  Ernest 
Hamilton's  temptation,  and  but  for  the  remembrance  of 
the  sad,  white  face  which  had  gazed  so  sorrowfully  at  him 
from  the  window,  he  had  fallen.  But  Maggie's  presence 
seemed  with  him, —  her  voice'whispered in  his  ear,  "Don't 
do  it,  father,  don't," —  and  he  calmly  answered  that  it 
would  be  a  good  match.  But  he  could  not,  no  he  could 
not  advise  her  to  marry  him  ;  so  he  qualified  what  he  had 
said  by  asking  her  not  to  be  in  a  hurry, —  to  wait  awhile. 
The  laugh  through  the  keyhole  was  changed  to  a  hiss, 
which  Mrs.  Carter  said  must  be  the  wind,  although  there 
was  not  enough  stirring  to  move  the  rose  bushes  which 
grew  by  the  door  step  ! 

So  much  was  Mr.  Hamilton  held  in  thrall  by  the  widow, 
tfoat  on  his  way  home  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  glad 


40  THE    HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

or  sorry  that  he  had  not   proposed.     If  Judge  B • 

would  marry  her  she  surely  was  good  enough  for  him. 
Anon,  too,  he  recalled  her  hesitation  about  confessing 
that  the  judge  was  indifferent  to  her.  Jealousy  crept  in, 
and  completed  what  flattery  and  intrigue  had  commenced, 
One  week  from  that  night  Ernest  Hamilton  and  Luella 
Carter  were  engaged,  but  for  appearance's  sake,  their 
marriage  was  not  to  take  place  until  the  ensuing  autumn. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

RAISING     THE     WIND. 

"  WHERE  are  you  going  now  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Carter  of 
her  daughter,  as  she  saw  her  preparing  to  go  out  one 
afternoon,  a  few  weeks  after  the  engagement. 

"  Going  to  raise  the  wind,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Going  to  what  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Carter. 

"To  raise  the  wind !     Are  you  deaf  ?"  yelled  Lenora. 

"  Raise  the  wind  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Carter ;  "  what  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Mean  what  I  say,"  said  Lenora ;  and  closing  the  door 
after  her  she  left  her  mother  to  wonder  "  what  fresh  mis 
chief  the  little  torment  was  at." 

But  she  was  only  going  to  make  a  friendly  call  on 
Margaret  and  Carrie,  the  latter  of  whom  she  had  heard 
was  sick. 

"  Is  Miss  Hamilton  at  home  ?  "  asked  she  of  the  ser 
vant  girl,  who  answered  her  ring,  and  whom  she  had 
nev  er  seen  before. 


EAISING  THE  WIND.  41 

Yes,  ma'am ;  walk  in  the  parlor.  What  name  shall  I 
give  her  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  Miss  Carter, —  Lenora  Carter ; "  and  the  servant  girl 
departed,  repeating  to  herself  all  the  way  up  the  stairs, 
"  Miss  Carther, —  Lenora  Carther !  " 

"Lenora  Carter  want  to  see  me!"  exclaimed  Mag, 
who,  together  with  Kate  Kirby,  was  in  her  sister's  room. 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  an'  sure  'twas  Miss  Hampleton  she  was 
wishin'  to  see,"  said  the  Irish  girl. 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  go  down,"  answered  Mag.  "  Tel1 
her,  Rachel,  that  I  am  otherwise  engaged." 

"  Oh,  Maggie,"  said  Carrie,  "  why  not  see  her  ?  I 
would  if  I  were  you." 

"  Rachel  can  ask  her  up  here  if  you  wish  it,"  answered 
Mag,  "  but  I  shall  leave  the  room." 

"  Faith,  an'  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  asked  Rachel,  who  was 
fresh  from  "  swate  Ireland  "  and  felt  puzzled  to  know  why 
a  "  silk  frock  and  smart  bonnet "  should  not  always  be 
welcome. 

"  Ask  her  up,"  answered  Kate.  "  I've  never  seen  her 
nearer  than  across  the  church  and  have  some  curiosity — " 

A  moment  after  Rachel  thrust  her  head  in  at  the  par 
lor  door,  saying,  "  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Miss  Marget  is 
engaged,  and  does  not  want  to  see  you,  but  Miss  Carrie 
says  you  may  come  up  there." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Lenora ;  and  tripping  after  the  ser 
vant  girl,  she  was  soon  in  Carrie's  room. 

After  retailing  nearly  all  the  gossip  of  which  she  waa 
mistress,  she  suddenly  turned  to  Carrie,  and  said,  "  Did 
you  know  that  your  father  was  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  My  father  going  to  be  married !  "  said  Carrie,  open 
ing  her  blue  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  My  father  going  to 
be  married  !  To  whom,  pray  ?  " 

"To  a  lady  from  the  east, — one  whom  he  used  to  know 


42  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

kind  flirt  with  when  he  was  in  college ! "  was  Lenora'a 
grave  reply. 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  "  asked  Kate. 

"  Her  name  ?  Let  me  see, —  Miss  —  Blackwell, —  Black* 
tner, —  Blaoklieart.  It  sounds  the  most  like  Blackhesrt." 

"  What  a  queer  name,"  said  Kate,  "  but  tell  us  what 
opportunity  has  Mr.  Hamilton  had  of  renewing  his  early 
acquaintance  with  the  lady." 

"  Don't  you  know  he's  been  east  this  winter  ?  "  asked 
Lenora. 

"  Yes,  as  far  as  Albany,"  answered  Carrie. 

"  Well,"  continued  Lenora,  "  't  was  during  his  eastern 
trip  that  the  matter  was  settled ;  but  pray  don't  repeat 
it  from  me,  except  it  be  to  Maggie,  who,  I  dare  say,  will 
feel  glad  to  be  relieved  of  her  heavy  responsibilities ; — but 
as  I  live,  Carrie,  you  are  crying !  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

But  Carrie  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  time  wept  on  in 
silence.  She  could  not  endure  the  thought  that  another 
would  so  soon  take  the  place  of  her  lost  mother  in  the 
household  and  in  the  affections  of  her  father.  There  was, 
besides,  something  exceedingly  annoying  in  the  manner 
of  her  who  communicated  the  intelligence,  and  secretly 
Carrie  felt  glad  that  the  dreaded,  "  Miss  Blackheart "  had, 
of  course,  no  Lenora  to  bring  with  her ! 

"  Do  you  know  all  this  to  be  true  ?  "  asked  Kate. 

"  Perfectly  true,"  said  Lenora.  "  We  have  friends  liv 
ing  in  the  vicinity  of  the  lady,  and  there  can  be  no  mis 
take,  except  indeed  in  the  name,  which  I  am  not  sure  in 
right !  " 

Then  hastily  kissing  Carrie,  the  little  hussy  went  away, 
very  well  satisfied  with  her  afternoon's  call.  As  soon  as 
she  was  out  of  hearing  Margaret  entered  her  sister's  room, 
and  on  noticing  Carrie's  Hushed  cheek  and  red  eyeH,  in- 


RAISING  THE  WINE.  43 

quired  the  cause.  Immediately  Kate  told  her  what  Le« 
nora  had  said,  but  instead  of  weeping  as  Carrie  had  done, 
she  betrayed  no  emotion  whatever. 

"  Why,  Maggie,  ain't  you  sorry  ?  "  asked  Carrie. 

"  No,  I  am  glad,"  returned  Mag.  "  I've  seen  all  along 
that  sooner  or  later  father  would  make  himself  ridicul on s, 
and  I'd  rather  he'd  marry  forty  women  from  the  east, 
than  one  woman  not  far  from  here  whom  I  know." 

All  that  afternoon  Mag  tripped  with  unwonted  gayety 
about  the  house.  A  weight  was  lifted  from  her  heart, 
for  in  her  estimation,  any  one  whom  her  father  would 
marry  was  preferable  to  Mrs.  Carter. 


Oh,  how  the  widow  scolded  the  daughter,  and  how  the 
daughter  laughed  at  the  widow,  when  she  related  the  par 
ticulars  of  her  call. 

"  Lenora,  what  could  have  possessed  you  to  tell  such  a 
lie?"  said  Mrs.  Carter. 

"Not  so  fast,  mother  mine,"  answered  Lenora. 
"'Twasn't  a  lie.  Mr.  Hamilton  is  engaged  to  a  lady 
from  the  east.  He  did  flirt  with  her  in  his  younger  days  ; 
and,  pray,  didn't  he  have  to  come  east  when  he  called  to 
inquire  after  his  beloved  classmates,  and  ended  by  getting 
checkmated!  Besides  I  think  you  ought  to  thank  me 
for  turning  ..the  channel  of  gossip  in  another  direction, 
for  now  you  will  be  saved  from  all  impertinent  questions 
and  remarks." 

This  mode  of  reasoning  failed  to  convince  the  widow, 
who  ferlt  quite  willing  that  people  should  know  of  her 
flattering  prospects ;  and  when,  a  few  days  after,  Mrs. 
Dr.  Otis  told  her  that  Mrs.  Kimball  said  that  Polly  Lar- 
kins  said,  that  her  hired  girl  told  her,  that  Mrs  Kirby's 


44  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

hired  girl  told  her,  that  she  overheard  Miss  Kate  telling 
her  mother,  that  Lenora  Carter  said  that  Mr.  Hamilton 
was  going  to  be  married  to  her  mother's  intimate  friend, 
Mrs.  Carter  would  have  denied  the  whole,  and  probably 
divulged  her  own  secret,  had  not  Lenora,  who  chanced 
to 'be  present,  declared,  with  the  coolest  effrontery,  that 
'twas  all  true — that  her  mother  had  promised  to  stand  up 
with  them ;  and  so  folks  would  find  it  to  be  if  they  did 
not  die  of  curiosity  before  autumn ! 

Lenora,  child,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  "  asked  the  dis 
tressed  lady,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her  visitor. 

Lenora  went  off  into  fits  of  explosive  laughter,  bound 
ing  up  and  down  like  an  India  rubber  ball,  and  at  last 
condescended  to  say,  "  I  know  what  I'm  about.  Do  you 
want  Mag  Hamilton  breaking  up  the  match,  as  she  surely 
would  do,  between  this  and  autumn,  if  she  knew  it  ?  " 

"  And  what  can  she  do  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Carter. 

"  Why,  returned  Lenora,  "  can't  she  write  to  the  placo 
you  came  from,  if,  indeed,  such  a  spot  can  be  found,  for 
I  believe  you  sometimes  book  yourself  from  one  town 
and  sometimes  from  another  ?  But  depend  upon  it,  you 
had  better  take  my  advice  and  keep  still,  and  in  the  de 
nouement  which  follows,  I  alone  shall  be  blamed  for  a 
slight  stretch  of  truth  which  you  can  easily  excuse,  as 
"  one  of  dear  Lenora's  silly,  childish  freaks !  " 

"Upon  second  thoughts  Mrs.  Carter  concluded  to  fol 
low  her  daughter's  advice,  and  the  next  time  Mr.  Ham 
ilton  called,  she  laughingly  told  the  story  which  Lenora 
had  set  afloat,  saying,  by  way  of  excuse,  that  the  dear 
girl  did  not  like  to  hear  her  mother  joked  on  the  subject 
of  matrimony,  and  had  turned  the  attention  of 'people 
another  way. 

Mr.  Hamilton  hardly  relished  this,  and  hair  wished, 
mayhap,  as,  indeed,  gentlemen  generally  do  in  similar  cir- 


EAISING  THE  WIND.  45 

cumstances,  that  the  little  "objection"  in  the  shape  of 
Lenora,  had  never  had  existence,  or  at  least  had  nevef 
called  the  widow  mother ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE     S  T  E  P-M  OTHER. 

RAPIDLY  the  summer  wTas  passing  away,  and  as  autumn 
drew  near,  the  wise  gossips  of  Glenwood  began  to  whis 
per  that  the  lady  from  the  east  was  in  danger  of  being 
supplanted  in  her  rights  by  the  widow,  whose  house  Mr. 
Hamilton  was  known  to  visit  two  or  three  times  each 
week.  But  Lenora  had  always  some  plausible  story  on 
hand.  "Mother  and  the  lady  had  been  so  intimate  —  in 
fact  more  than  once  rocked  in  the  same  cradle  —  and 
'twas  no  wonder  Mr.  Hamilton  came  often  to  a  place 
where  he  could  hear  so  much  about  her." 

So  when  business  again  took  Mr.  Hamilton  to  Albany, 
suspicion  was  wholly  lulled,  and  Walter,  on  his  return 
from  college,  was  told  by  Mag  that  her  fears  concerning 
Mrs.  Carter  were  groundless.  During  the  spring,  Carrie 
had  been  confined  to  her  bed,  but  now  she  seemed  much 
better,  and  after  Walter  had  been  at  home  awhile,  he 
proposed  that  he  and  his  sisters  should  take  a  traveling 
excursion,  going  first  to  Saratoga,  thence  to  Lake  Cham- 
plain  and  Montreal,  and  returning  home  by  way  of  Canada 
and  the  Falls.  This  plan  Mr.  Hamilton  warmly  seconded, 
and  when  Carrie  asked  if  he  would  not  feel  lonely,  ho 
answered,  "Oh,  no;  Willie  and  I  will  do  very  well  whila 
you  are  gone." 


46  THE   HOMESTEAD   ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"But  who  will  stay  with  Willie  evenings,  when  you 
are  away  ?  "  asked  Mag,  looking  her  father  steadily  in 
the  face. 

Mr.  Hamilton  colored  slightly,  but  after  a  moment,  re 
plied  :  "  I  shall  spend  my  evenings  at  home." 

"  'Twill  be  what  he  hasn't  done  for  many  a  week," 
thought  Mag,  as  she  again  busied  herself  with  her 
preparations. 

The  morning  came,  at  last,  on  which  our  travelers  were 
to  leave.  Kate  Kirby  had  been  invited  to  accompany 
them,  but  her  mother  would  not  consent.  "It  would 
give  people  too  much  chance  for  talk,"  she  said ;  so  Kate 
was  obliged  to  content  herself  with  going  as  far  as  the 
depot,  and  watching,  until  out  of  sight,  the  car  which 
bore  them  away. 

Upon  the  piazza  stood  the  little  group,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  carriage,  which  was  to  convey  them  to  the 
station.  Mr.  Hamilton  seemed  unusually  gloomy,  and 
with  folded  arms  paced  up  and  down  the  long  piazza, 
rarely  speaking  or  noticing  any  one. 

"  Are  you  sorry  we  are  going,  father  ?  "  asked  Carrie, 
going  up  to  him.  "  If  you  are,  I  will  gladly  stay  with 
you." 

Mr.  Hamilton  paused,  and  pushing  back  the  fair  hair 
from  his  daughter's  white  brow,  he  kissed  her  tenderly, 
saying,  "No,  Carrie;  I  want  you  to  go.  The  journey 
will  do  you  good,  for  you  are  getting  too  much  the  look 
your  poor  mother  used  to  wear." 

Why  thought  he  then  of  Carrie's  mother  ?  Was  it  be 
cause  he  knew  that  ere  his  child  returned  to  him,  another 
would  be  in  that  mother's  place  ?  Anon,  Margaret  came 
near,  and  motioning  Carrie  away,  Mr.  Hamilton  took  his 
other  daughter's  Imnd,  and  led  her  to  the  end  of  the 
piazza,  where  could  easily  be  seen  the  little  grave-yard, 


THE  STEP-MOTHER.  4? 

and  tall  white  monument  pointing  toward  the  bright  blue 
gky}  where  dwelt  the  one  whose  grave  that  costly  marble 
marked. 

Pointing  out  the  spot  to  Margaret,  he  said,  "  Tell  ma 
truly,  Maggie,  did  you  love  your  father  or  your  mother 
best  if " 

Mag  looked  wonderingly  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
replied,  "  While  mother  lived,  I  loved  her  more  than  you, 
but  now  that  she  is  dead,  I  think  of  and  love  you  as  both 
father  and  mother." 

"  And  will  you  always  love  me  thus  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Always,"  was  Mag's  reply,  as  she  looked  curiously  in 
her  father's  face,  and  thinking  that  he  had  not  said  what 
he  intended  to  when  first  he  drew  her  there. 

Just  then  the  carriage  drove  up,  and  after  a  few  good- 
bys  and  parting  words,  Ernest  Hamilton's  children  were 
gone,  and  he  was  left  alone. 

"  Why  didn't  I  tell  her,  as  I  intended  to  ?  "  thought 
ne.  "  Is  it  because  I  fear  her, —  fear  my  own  child  ?  No, 
it  cannot  be, —  and  yet  there  is  that  in  her  eye  which 
sometimes  makes  me  quail,  and  which,  if  necessary,  would 
keep  at  bay  a  dozen  step-mothers.  But  neither  she,  nor 
either  one  of  them,  has  ought  to  dread  from  Mrs.  Carter, 
whose  presence  will,  I  think,  be  of  great  benefit  to  us  all, 
and  whose  gentle  manners,  I  trust,  will  tend  to  soften 
Mag ! " 

Meantime  his  children  were  discussing  and  wondering 
at  the  strange  mood  of  their  father.  Walter,  however, 
took  no  part  in  the  conversation.  He  had  lived  longer 
than  his  sisters, —  had  seen  more  of  human  nature,  and 
had  his  own  suspicions  with  regard  to  what  would  take 
place  during  their  absence;  but  he  could  not  spoil  all 
Margaret's  happiness  by  telling  her  his  thoughts,  so  he 
kept  them  t-o  himself,  secretly  resolving  to  make  the  best 


48  THE   HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

of  whatever  might  occur,  and  to  advise  Mag  to  do  the 
game. 

Now  for  a  time  we  leave  them,  and  take  a  look  into 
the  cottage  of  Widow  Carter,  where,  one  September  morn 
ing,  about  three  weeks  after  the  departure  of  the  HamiL 
tons,  preparations  were  making  for  some  great  event.  In 
the  kitchen  a  servant  girl  was  busily  at  work,  while  in  the 
parlor  Lenora  was  talking  and  the  widow  was  listening. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Lenora,  "  isn't  it  so  nice  that  they 
went  away  just  now  ?  But  won't  Mag  look  daggers  at 
us,  when  she  comes  home  and  finds  us  in  quiet  possession, 
and  is  told  to  call  you  mother  !  " 

"  I  never  expect  her  to  do  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Carter. 
"  The  most  I  can  hope  for  is  that  she  will  call  me  Mrs. 
Hamilton." 

"Now  really,  mother,  if  I  were  in  Mag's  place,  1 
wouldn't  please  you  enough  to  say  Mrs.  Hamilton ;  I'd 
always  call  you  Mrs.  Carter,"  said  Lenora. 

"  How  absurd,"  was  the  reply ;  and  Lenora  continued : 
"  I  know  it's  absurd,  but  I'd  do  it ;  though  if  she  does,  I, 
as  the  dutiful  child  of  a  most  worthy  parent,  shall  feel 
compelled  to  resent  the  insult  by  calling  her  father  Mr. 
Carter  !  " 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Carter  was  needed  in  the  kitchen ; 
so,  leaving  Lenora,  who  at  once  was  the  pest  and  torment 
of  her  mother's  life,  we  will  go  into  the  village  and  see 
what  effect  the  approaching  nuptials  were  producing.  It 
was  now  generally  known  that  the  "  lady  from  the  east " 
who  had  been  "  rocked  in  Mrs.  Carter's  cradle,"  was  none 
other  than  Mrs.  Carter  herself,  and  many  were  the  re 
proving  looks  which  the  people  had  cast  toward  Lenora 
for  the  trick  she  had  put  upon  them.  The  little  hussy 
only  laughed  at  them  good  humoredly,  telling  them  they 
Were  angry  because  she  had  cheated  them  out  of  iive 


THE  STEP-MOTHER.  49 

Oionths'  gossip,  and  that  if  her  mother  could  haver  had  her 
way,  she  would  have  sent  the  news  to  the  Herald  and  had 
it  inserted  under  the  head  of  "  Awful  Catastrophe ! " 
Thus  Mrs.  Carter  was  exonerated  from  all  blame ;  but 
many  a  wise  old  lady  shook  her  head,  saying,  "How 
strange  that  so  line  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Carter  should  have* 
such  a  reprobate  of  a  daughter." 

When  this  remark  came  to  Lenora's  ears,  she  cut  nu 
merous  flourishes,  which  ended  in  the  upsetting  of  a  bowl 
of  starch  on  her  mother's  new  black  silk ;  then  dancing 
before  the  highly  indignant  lady,  she  said,  "  Perhaps  if 
they  knew  what  a  scapegrace  you  represent  my  father  to 
have  been,  and  how  you  whipped  me  once  to  make  me 
say  I  saw  him  strike  you,  when  I  never  did,  they  would 
wonder  at  my  being  as  good  as  I  am." 

Mrs.  Carter  was  too  furious  to  venture  a  verbal  reply ; 
so  seizing  the  starch  bowl,  she  hurled  it  with  the  remain 
der  of  the  contents  at  the  head  of  the  little  vixen,  who, 
with  an  elastic  bound,  not  entirely  unlike  a  summerset, 
dodged  the  missile,  which  passed  on  and  fell  upon  the 
hearth  rug. 

This  is  but  one  of  a  series  of  similar  scenes,  which  oc 
curred  between  the  widow  and  her  child  before  the  happy 
day  arrived,  when,  in  the  presence  of  a  select  few  of  the 
villagers,  Luella  Carter  was  transformed  into  Luella  Ham 
ilton.  The  ceremony  was  scarcely  over,  when  Mr.  Ham 
ilton,  who  for  a  few  days  had  been  rather  indisposed, 
complained  of  feeling  sick.  Immediately  Lenora,  with  a 
sidelong  glance  at  her  mother,  exclaimed,  "  What,  sick 
of  your  bargain  so  quick?  It's  sooner,  even,  than  I 
thought  'twould  be,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  capable  of 
judging." 

u  Dear  Lenora,"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  turning  toward  one 
C  4 


50  THE   HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

of  her  neighbors,  "  she  has  such  a  flow  of  spirits,  that  1 
am  afraid  Mr.  Hamilton  will  find  her  troublesome. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  mother ;  he'll  never  think  of  me 
when  you  are  around,"  was  Lenora's  reply,  in  which  Mm, 
Carter  saw  more  than  one  meaning. 

That  evening  the  bridal  party  repaired  to  the  home 
stead,  where,  at  Mr.  Hamilton's  request,  Mrs.  Kirby  was 
waiting  to  receive  them.  Willie  had  been  told  by  the 
servants  that  his  mother  was  coming  home  that  night, 
and,  with  the  trusting  faith  of  childhood,  he  had  drawn  a 
chair  to  the  window  from  which  he  could  see  his  mother's 
grave ;  and  there  for  more  than  an  hour  he  watched  for 
the  first  indications  of  her  coining,  saying,  occasionally, 
"  Oh,  I  wish  she'd  come.  Willie's  so  sorry  here." 

At  last  growing  weary  and  discouraged,  he  turned 
away  and  said,  "  No  ma  '11  never  come  home  again ;  Mag 
gie  said  she  wouldn't." 

Upon  the  carriage  road  which  wound  from  the  street 
to  the  house,  there  was  the  sound  of  coming  wheels,  and 
Rachel,  seizing  Willie,  bore  him  to  the  front  door,  ex 
claiming,  "  An'  faith,  Willie,  don't  you  see  her  ?  That's 
your  mother,  honey,  with  the  black  gOAvn." 

But  Willie  saw  only  the  wild  eyes  of  Lenora,  who 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  overwhelming  him  with  caresses. 
"  Let  me  go,  Leno,"  said  he  "  I  want  to  see  my  ma. 
Where  is  she  ?  " 

A  smile  of  scorn  curled  Lenora's  lips,  as  she  released 
him,  and  leading  him  toward  her  mother,  she  said, 
"There  she  is;  there's  your  ma.  Now  hold  up  your 
head  and  make  a  bow." 

Willie's  lip  quivered,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
hiding  his  face  in  his  apron,  he  sobbed,  "  I  want  my  own 
ma, —  the  one  they  shut  up  in  a  big  black  box.  Where 
is  she,  Leno  ? 


THE  STEP-MOTHER.  bl 

Mr.  Hamilton  took  Willie  on  his  knee,  and  tried  to  ex 
plain  to  him,  how  that  now  his  own  mother  was  dead,  he 
had  got  a  new  one,  who  would  love  him  and  be  kind  to 
him.  Then  putting  liini  down,  he  said,  "  Go,  my  son,  and 
epeak  tc  her,  won't  you  ?  " 

Willie  advanced  rather  cautiously  toward  the  black 
silk  figure,  which  reached  out  its  hand,  saying,  "Dear 
Willie,  you'll  love  me  a  little,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  are  good  to  me,"  was  the  answer,  which 
made  the  new  step-mother  mentally  exclaim,  "  A  young 
rebel,  I  know,"  while  Lenora,  bending  between  the  two, 
whispered  emphatically,  "  She  shall  be  good  to  you !  " 

And  soon,  in  due  order,  the  servants  were  presented  to 
their  new  mistress.  Some  were  disposed  to  like  her, 
others  eyed  her  askance,  and  old  Polly  Pepper,  the  black 
cook,  who  had  been  in  the  family  ever  since  Mr.  Hamil 
ton's  first  marriage,  returned  her  salutation  rather  gruffly, 
and  then,  stalking  back  to  the  kitchen,  muttered  to  those 
who  followed  he"r,  "  I  don't  like  her  face  no  how ;  she 
looks  just  like  the  milk-snakes,  when  they  stick  their  heads 
in  at  the  door." 

"  But  you  knew  how  she  looked  before,"  said  Lucy,  the 
chambermaid. 

"  I  know  it,"  returned  Polly ;  "  but  when  she  was  here 
nussin',  I  never  noticed  her,  more'n  I  would  any  on  you ; 
for  who'd  of  thought  that  Mr.  Hamilton  would  marry 
her,  when  he  knows,  or  or'to  know,  that  misses  ain't  fust 
cut,  no  how ;  and  you  may  depend  on't,  things  ain't  a 
goin'  to  be  here  as  they  used  to  be." 

Here  Rachel  started  up,  and  related  the  circumstance  of 
Margaret's  refusing  to  see  "  that  little  evil-eyed  lookin' 
varmint,  with  curls  almost  like  Polly's." 

TAICY,  too,  suddenly  remembered  something  which  she 
had  seen,  or  heard,  or  made  up,  so  that  Mrs.  Carter  had 


52  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

not  been  an  hour  in  the  coveted  homestead  ere  there  wni 
mutiny  against  her  afloat  in  the  kitchen;  "But,"  said 
Aunt  Polly,  "  I  'vises  you  all  to  be  civil  till  she  sasses  you 
fust ! » 


"  My  dear,  what  room  can  Lenora  have  for  her  own?" 
asked  Mrs,  Hamilton,  as  we  must  now  call  her,  the  morn 
ing  following  her  marriage. 

"  Why,  really,  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  husband ; 
"  you  must  suit  yourselves  with  regard  to  that." 

"  Yes ;  but  I'd  rather  you'd  select,  and  then  no  one  can 
blame  me,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Choose  any  room  you  please,  except  the  one  which 
Mag  and  Carrie  now  occupy,  and  rest  assured  you  shall 
not  be  blamed,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton. 

The  night  before,  Lenora  had  appropriated  to  herself 
the  best  chamber,  but  the  room  was  so  large  and  so  far 
distant  from  any  one,  and  the  windows  and  fireboard  rat 
tled  so,  that  she  felt  afraid,  and  did  not  care  to  repeat  her 
experiment. 

"  I  'clar  for 't ! "  said  Polly,  when  she  heard  of  it, 
"  Gone  right  into  the  best  bed,  where  even  Miss  Marga 
ret  never  goes !  What  are  we  all  comin'  to  ?  Tell  her, 
Luce,  the  story  of  the  ghosts,  and  I'll  be  bound  she'U  make 
herself  scarce  in  them  rooms  !  " 

"  Tell  her  yourself,"  said  Lucy ;  and  when,  after  break 
fast,  Lenora,  anxious  to  spy  out  everything,  appeared  in 
the  kitchen,  Aunt  Polly  called  out,  "  Did  you  hear  any 
thing  last  night,  Miss  Lenora  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes — I  heard  the  windows  rattle,"  was  the  an 
swer  ;  and  Aunt  Polly,  with  an  ominous  shake  of  the 
head,  continued :  "There's  more  than  windows  rattle,  I 


THE  STEP-MOTHER.  53 

guess.  Didn't  you  see  nothin',  all  white  and  corpse-like^ 
go  a  whizzin'  and  rappin'  by  your  bed  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Lenora ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

So  Polly  told  her  of  the  ghosts  and  goblins  winch 
nightly  ranged  the  two  chambers,  over  the  front  and  back 
parlors.  Lenora  said  nothing,  but  she  secretly  resolved 
not  to  venture  again  after  dark  into  the  haunted  portion 
of  the  house.  But  where  should  she  sleep  ?  That  was 
now  the  important  question.  Adjoining  the  sitting-room 
was  a  pleasant,  cozy  little  place,  which  Margaret  called 
her  music-room.  In  it  she  kept  .her  piano,  her  music- 
stand,  books,  and  several  fine  plants,  besides  numerous 
other  little  conveniences.  At  the  end  of  this  room  was  a 
large  closet,  where,  at  different  seasons  of  the  year,  Mag 
hung  away  the  articles  of  clothing  which  she  and  her  sis 
ter  did  not  need. 

Toward  this  place  Lenora  turned  her  eyes ;  for,  besides 
being  unusually  pleasant,  it  was  also  very  near  her  mother, 
whose  sleeping-room  joined,  though  it  did  not  communi 
cate  with  it.  Accordingly,  before  noon  the  piano  was  re 
moved  to  the  parlor;  the  plants  were  placed,  some  on 
the  piazza,  and  some  in  the  sitting-room  window,  while 
Margaret  and  Carrie's  dresses  were  removed  to  the  closet 
of  their  room,  which  chanced  to  be  a  trifle  too  small  to 
hold  them  all  conveniently ;  so  they  were  crowded  ono 
above  the  other,  and  left  for  "  the  girls  to  see  to  when 
they  came  home !  " 

In  perfect  horror  Aunt  Polly  looked  on,  regretting  for 
once  the  ghost  story  which  she  had  told. 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  chamber  jinin'  the  young  la- 
dies  ?  that  ain't  haunted,"  said  she,  when  they  sent  for 
her  to  help  move  the  piano.  " Miss  Margaret  won't  thank 
you  for  scatterin'  her  things." 


54  THE    HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  You've  nothing  to  do  with  Lenora,"  said  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton ;  "  you've  only  to  attend  to  your  own  matters." 

"  Wonder  then  what  I'm  up  here  for  a  h'istin'  this  pi- 
anner,"  muttered  Polly.  '"  This  ain't  my  matters,  sartin  V 

When  Mr.  Hamilton  came  in  to  dinner,  he  was  shown 
the  little  room  with  its  single  bed,  tiny  bureau,  silken 
lounge  and  easy  chair,  of  which  the  last  two  were  Mag's 
especial  property. 

"All  very  nice,"  said  he,  "but  where  is  Mag's  piano  ?" 

"In  the  parlor,"  answered  his  wife.  "People  often 
ask  for  music,  and  it  is  more  convenient  to  have  it  there, 
than  to  come  across  the  hall  and  through  the '  sitting- 
room."  ' 

IvrY.  Hamilton  said  nothing,  "but  he  secretly  wished 
Mag's  rights  had  not  been  invaded  quite  so  soon.  His 
wife  must  have  guessed  as  much ;  for,  laying  her  hand  on 
his,  she,  with  the  utmost  deference,  offered  to  undo  all 
she  had  done,  if  it  did  not  please  him. 

"Certainly  riot  —  certainly  not;  it  does  please  me," 
said  he ;  while  Polly,  who  stood  on  the  cellar  stairs  lis 
tening  exclaimed,  "  What  a  fool  a  woman  can  make  of  a 

G"  ' 

man !  " 

Three  days  after  Mr.  Hamilton's  marriage,  he  received 
a  letter  from  Walter,  saying  that  they  would  be  at  home 
on  the  Thursday  night  following.  Willie  was  in  ecstasies, 
for  though,  as  yet,  he  liked  his  new  mother  tolerably  well, 
he  still  loved  Maggie  better ;  and  the  thought  of  seeing 
her  again  made  him  wild  with  delight.  All  day  long  on 
Thursday  he  sat  in  the  doorway,  listening  for  the  shrill 
cry  of  the  train  which  was  to  bring  her  home. 

"  Don't  you  love  Maggie  ?  "  said  he  to  Lenora,  who 
chanced  to  pass  him. 

"Don't  I  love  Maggie?  ISTo,  I  don't;  neither  doea 
6he  love  me,"  was  the  answer 


THE  STEP-MOTHEE.  55 

Willie  was  puzzled  to  know  why  any  one  should  not 
like  Mag ;  but  his  confidence  in  her  was  not  at  all  shaken, 
and  when,  soon  after  sunset,  Lenora  cried,  "There, 
they've  come,"  he  rushed  to  the  door,  and  was  soon  in 
the  arms  of  his  sister-mother.  Pressing  his  lips  to  hers, 
he  said,  "Did  you  know  I'd  got  a  new  mother  ?  Mrs, 
Carter  and  Leno  —  they  are  in  there,"  pointing  toward 
the  parlor. 

Instantly  Mag  dropped  him.  It  was  the  first  intima 
tion  of  her  father's  marriage  which  she  had  received,  and 
reeling  backward,  she  would  have  fallen,  had  not  Walter 
supported  her.  Quickly  rallying,  she  advanced  toward 
her  father,  who  came  to  meet  her,  and  whose  hand  trem 
bled  in  her  grasp.  After  greeting  each  of  his  children, 
he  turned  to  present  them  to  his  wife,  wisely  taking  Car 
rie  first.  She  was  not  prejudiced,  like  Mag,  and  returned 
her  step-mother's  salutation  with  something  like  affec 
tion,  for  which  Lenora  rewarded  her  by  terming  her  a 
'  little  simpleton." 

But  Mag — she  who  had  warned  her  father  against  that 
woman  —  she  who  on  her  knees  had  begged  him  not  to 
marry  her — she  had  no  Word  of  welcome,  and  when  Mrs. 
Hamilton  offered  her  hand,  she  affected  not  to  see  it, 
though,  with  the  most  frigid  politeness,  she  said,  "  Good 
evening,  madam ;  this  is,  indeed,  a  surprise !  " 

"  And  not  a  very  pleasant  one,  either,  I  imagine,"  whis 
pered  Lenora  to  Carrie. 

Walter  came  last,  and  though  he  took  the  lady's  hand, 
there  was  something  in  his  manner  which  plainly  said, 
she  was  not  wanted  there.  Tea  was  now  announced,  an*? 
Mag  bit  her  lip  when  she  saw  her  accustomed  seat  occu 
pied  by  another. 

Feigning  to  recollect  herself,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  in  the 


56  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

blandest  tones,  said,  "  Perhaps,  dear  Maggie,  you  would 
prefer  this  seat  ?  " 

•"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mag;  while  Lenora  thought  to 
herself,  "And  if  she  does,  I  wonder  what  good  it  will 
do  ?  " 

That  young  lady,  however,  made  no  remarks,  for  Wal 
ter  Hamilton's  searching  eyes  were  upon  her  and  kept 
her  silent.  After  tea,  Walter  said,  "  Come,  Mag,  I  have 
not  heard  your  piano  in  a  long  time.  Give  us  some 
music." 

Mag  arose  to  comply  with  his  wishes,  out  ere  she  had 
reached  the  door,  Mrs;  Hamilton,  gently  detained  her, 
saying,  "  Maggie,  dear,  Lenora  has  always  slept  near  me, 
and  as  I  knew  you  would  not  object,  if  you  were  here, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  remove  your  piano  to  the  parlor,  and 
to  fit  this  up  for  Lenora's  sleeping  room.  See — "  and  she 
threw  open  the  door,  disclosing  the  metamorphose,  while 
Willie,  who  began  to  get  an  inkling  of  matters,  arid  who 
always  called  the  piazza  "  out  doors,"  chimed  in,  "  And 
they  throw'd  your  little  trees  out  doors,  too  !" 

Mag  stood  for  a  moment,  mute  with  astonishment ; 
then,  thinking  she  could  not  "  do  the  subject  justice," 
she  turned  silently  away.  A  roguish  smile  from  Walter 
met  her  eye,  but  she  did  not  laugh,  until,  with  Carrie, 
she  repaired  to  her  own  room,  and  tried  to  put  some 
thing  in  the  closet.  Then  coming  upon  the  pile  of  extra 
clothes,  she  exclaimed,  "  What  in  the  world !  Here's  all 
our  winter  clothing,  and,  as  I  live,  five  dresses  crammed 
upon  one  nail!  We'll  have  to  move  to  the  barn,  next !  " 

This  was  too  much,  and  sitting  down,  Mag  cried  and 
laughed  alternately. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMEST!LM>.  57 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

DOMESTIC   LIFE   AT   THE   HOMESTEAD. 

Foit  a  few  weeks  after  Margaret's  return,  matters  at 
the  homestead  glided  on  smoothly  enough,  but  at  the  end 
of  that  time  Mrs.  Hamilton  began  to  reveal  her  real  char 
acter.  Carrie's  journey  had  not  been  as  beneficial  as  he' 
father  had  hoped  it  would  be,  and  as  the  days  grew  colder, 
she  complained  of  extreme  languor  and  a  severe  pain  in 
her  side,  and  at  last  kept  her  room  entirely,  notwithstand 
ing  the  numerous  hints  from -her  step-mother,  that 'it  was 
no  small  trouble  to  carry  so  many  dishes  up  and  down 
stairs  three  times  a  day. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  naturally  very  stirring  and  active, 
and  in  spite  of  her  remarkable  skill  in  nursing,  she  felt  ex 
ceedingly  annoyed  when  any  of  her  own  family  were  ill. 
She  fancied,  too,  that  Carrie  was  feigning  all  her  bad 
feelings,  and  that  she  would  be  much  better  if  she  ex 
erted  herself  more.  Accordingly,  one  afternoon  when 
Mag  was  gone,  .she  repaired  to  Carrie's  room,  giving  vent 
to  her  opinion  as  follows :  "  Carrie,"  said  she,  (she  now 
dropped  the  dear,  when  Mr.  Hamilton  was  not  by,)  "  Car 
rie,  I.shouldn't  suppose  you'd  ever  expect  to  get  well,  so 
long  as  you  stay  moped  up  here  all  day.  You  ought  to 
come  down  stairs,  and  stir  round  more." 

"  Oh,  I  should  be  so  glad  if  I  could,"  answered  Carrie. 

"  Could !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Hamilton ;  "  you  could  if 
you  would.  Now,  it's  my  opinion  that  you  complain  al 
together  too  much,  and  fancy  you  are  a  great  deal  worse 
than  you  really  are,  when  all  you  want  is  exercise.  A 
short  walk  on  the  piazza,  and  a  little  fresh  air,  each 
ing,  would  soon  cure  you." 
C* 


58  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE   HILLSIDE. 

"  I  know  fresh  air  does  me  good,"  said  Carrie ;  "  bul 
walking  makes  my  side  ache  so  hard,  and  makes  me 
cough  so,  that  Maggie  thinks  I'd  better  not." 

Mag,  quoted  as  authority,  exasperated  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
who  replied,  rather  sharply,  "Fudge  on  Mag's  old-maid 
ish  whims !  I  know  that  any  one  who  eats  as  much  as 
you  do,  can't  be  so  very  weak !  " 

"  I  don't  eat  hall"  you  send  me,"  said  poor  Carrie,  be 
ginning  to  cry  at  her  mother's  unkind  remarks ;  "  Willie 
most  always  comes  up  here  and  eats  with  me." 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  mother,  let  the  child  have  what  she 
wants  to  eat,  for  'tisn't  long  she'll  need  it,"  said  Lenora, 
suddenly  appearing  in  the  room. 

"  Lenora,  go  right  down ;  you  are  not  wanted  here," 
said  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

"Neither  are  you,  I  fancy,"  was  Lenora's  reply,  as  she 
coolly  seated  herself  on  the  foot  of  Carrie's  bed,  while  hoi- 
mother  continued  :  "  Really,  Carrie,  you  must  try  and 
come  down  to  your  meals,  for  you  have  no  idea  how 
much  it  hinders  the  work,  to  bring  them  up  here.  Polly 
isn't  good  for  anything  until  she  has  conjured  up  some 
thing  extra  for  your  breakfast,  and  then  they  break  so 
many  dishes ! " 

"  I'll  try  to  conic  down,  to-morrow,"  said  Carrie,  meek 
ly  ;  and,  as  the  door  bell  just  then  rang,  Mrs.  Hamilton 
departed,  leaving  her  with  Lenora,  whose  first  exclama 
tion  was,  "  If  I  were  in  your  place,  Carrie,  I  wouldn't  eat 
anything,  and  die  quick." 

"  I  don't  want  to  die,"  said  Carrie ;  and  Lenora,  clap 
ping  her  hands  together,  replied,  "Why,  you  poor  little 
innocent,  who  supposed  you  did  ?  Nobody  wants  to  die, 
not  even  JJ  good  as  I  am ;  but  I  should  expect  to,  if  ] 
had  the  consumption.' 

"Lenora,  have  I  got  the  consumption?"  asked  Carrie 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  5!) 

fixing  her  eyes  with  mournful  earnestness  upon  her  com 
panion,  who  thoughtlessly  r jplied :  "  To  be  sure  you 
have.  They  say  one  lung  is  entirely  gone,  and  the  othei 
nearly  so." 

Wearily  the  sick  girl  turned  upon  her  side ;  and,  rest. 
ing  her  dimpled  cheek  upon  her  hand,  she  said,  softly, 
"  Go  away  now,  Lenora ;  I  want  to  be  alone." 

Lenora  complied,-  and  whtn  Margaret  returned  from 
the  village,  she  found  her  sister  lying  in  the  same  posi 
tion  in  which  Lenora  had  left  her,  with  her  fair  hair  faP 
ing  over  her  face,  which  it  hid  from  view. 

"Are  you  asleep,  Carrie  ?  "  said  Mag;  but  Carrie  made 
no  answer,  and  there  was  something  so  still  and  motion 
less  in  her  repose,  that  Mag  went  up  to  her,  and  pushing 
back  from  her  face  the  long  silken  hair,  saw  that  she  had 
fainted. 

The  excitement  of  her  step-mother's  visit,  added  to  the 
startling  news  which  Lenora  had  told  her,  were  too  much 
for  her  weak  nerves,  and  for  a  time  she  remained  insensi 
ble.  At  length,  rousing  herself,  she  looked  dreamily 
around,  saying,  "Was  it  a  dream,  Maggie — all  a  dream?  " 

"  Was  what  a  dream,  love  ?  "  said  Margaret,  support 
ing  her  sister's  head  upon  her  bosom. 

Suddenly  Carrie  remembered  the  whole,  but  she  re 
solved  not  to  tell  of  her  step-mother's  visit,  though  she 
earnestly  desired  to  know  if  what  Lenora  had  told  her  were 
true..  Raising  herself,  so  that  she  could  see  Margaret's 
face,  she  said,  "  Maggie,  is  there  no  hope  for  me ;  and  do 
the  physicians  say  I  must  die  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  never  knew  that  they 
said  so,"  answered  Mag  ;  and  then  with  breathless  indig- 
nation  she  listened,  while  Carrie  told  her  what  Lenora 
had  said.  "  I'll  see  that  she  doesn't  get  in  here  again," 
said  Margaret.  "  I  know  she  made  more  than  half  of 


60  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

that  up ;  for,  though  the  physicians  say  your  lungs  are 
very  much  diseased,  they  have  never  said  that  you  could 
not  recover." 

The  next  morning,  greatly  to  Mag's  astonishment,  Car 
rie  insisted  upon  going  down  to  breakfast. 

"  Why,  you  must  not  do  it ;  you  are  not  able,"  said 
Mag.  But  Carrie  was  determined ;  and,  wrapping  her 
self  in  her  thick  shawl,  slid  slowly  descended  the  stairs, 
though  the  cold  air  in  the  long  hall  made  her  shiver. 

"  Carrie,  dear,  you  are  better  this  morning,  and  there 
is  quite  a  rosy  flush  on  your  cheek,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
rising  to  meet  her.  (Mr.  Hamilton,  be  it  remembered, 
was  present.)  But  Carrie  shrank  instinctively  from  her 
step-mother's  advances,  and  took  her  seat  by  the  side  of 
her  father. 

After  breakfast,  Mag  remembered  that  she  had  an  er 
rand  in  the  village,  and  Carrie,  who  felt  too  weary  to  re 
turn  immediately  to  her  room,  said  she  would  wait  be 
low  until  her  sister  returned.  Mag  had  been  gone  but  a 
few  moments,  when  Mrs.  Hamilton,  opening  the  outer 
door,  called  to  Lenora,  saying,  "  Come  and  take  a  few 
turns  on  the  piazza  with  Carrie.  The  air  is  bracing  tlu'g 
morning,  and  will  do  her  good." 

Willie,  who  was  present,  cried  out,  "  IsTo  —  Carrie  is 
sick  ;  she  can't  walk — Maggie  said  she  couldn't,"  and  he 
grasped  his  sister's  hand  to  hold  her.  With  a  not  very 
gentle  jerk,  Mrs.  Hamilton  pulled  him  off,  while  Lenora, 
who  came  bobbing  and  bounding  into  the  room,  took 
Carrie's  arm,  saying,  "  Oh  yes,  I'll  walk  with  you ;  shall 
we  have  a  hop,  skip,  or  jump  ?  " 

"  Don't,  don't !  "  said  Carrie,  holding  bad: ;  "  I  can't 
walk  fast,  Lenora,"  and  actuated  by  some  sudden  impulsa 
of  kindness,  Lenora  conformed  her  steps  to  those  of  tho 
invalid.  Twice  they  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza,  and 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  61 

about  turning  for  the  third  time,  when  Carrie, 
clasping  her  hand  over  her  side,  exclaimed,  "  Xo,  no ;  I 
can't  go  again." 

Little  Willie,  who  fancied  that  his  sister  was  being 
hurt,  sprang  toward  Lenora,  saying,  "  Lerio,  you  mustn't 
hurt  Carrie.  Let  her  go  ;  she's  sick." 

And  now  to  the  scene  of  action  came  Dame  Hamilton, 
and  seizing  her  young  step-son,  she  tore  him  away  froic 
Lenora,  administering,  at  the  same  time,  a  bit  of  a  moth1 
erly  shake.  Willie's  blood  was  up,  and  in  return  he  dealt 
her  blow,  for  which  she  rewarded  him  by  another  shake, 
and  by  tying  him  to  the  table. 

That  Lenora  was  not  ah1  bad,  was  shown  by  the  unself 
ish  affection  she  ever  manifested  for  Willie,  although  her 
untimely  interference  between  him  and  her  mother  often 
times  made  matters  worse.  Thus,  on  the  occasion  of 
which  we  have  been  speaking,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  scarcely 
left  the  room  ere  Lenora  released  Willie  from  his  confine 
ment,  thereby  giving  him  the  impression  that  his  mother 
alone  was  to  blame.  Fortunately,  however,  Margaret's 
judgment  was  better,  and  though  she  felt  justly  indig 
nant  at  the  cruelty  practiced  upon  poor  Carrie,  she  could 
not  uphold  Willie  in  striking  his  mother.  Calling  him  to 
her  room,  she  talked  to  him  until  he  was  wholly  softened, 
and  offered,  of  his  own  accord,  to  go  and  say  he  was  sorry, 
provided  Maggie  would  accompany  him  as  far  as  the  door 
of  the  sitting-room,  where  his  mother  would  probably  be 
found.  Accordingly,  Mag  descended  the  stairs  with  him, 
and  meeting  Lenora  in  the  hall,  said,  "  Is  she  in  the  sit 
ting-room  ?  " 

"  Is  she  in  the  sitting  room  ?  "  repeated  Lenora,  "  and 
pray  who  may  she  be  ? "  then  quick  as  thought  she 
added,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  She  is  in  there  telling  HE  !  " 

Lenora  was  right  in  her  conjecture,  for  Mrs.  Hamilton, 


02  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

greatly  enraged  at  Willie's  presumption  in  striking  her, 
and  still  more  provoked  at  him  for  untying  himself,  as 
she  supposed  he  -had,  was  laying  before  her  husband 
quite  an  aggravated  case  of  assault  and  battery. 

In  the  midst  of  her  argument  Willie  entered  the  room, 
with  tear-stained  eyes,  and  without  noticing  the  pres 
ence  of  his  father,  went  directly  to  his  mother,  and  burying 
his  face  in  her  lap,  sobbed  out,  "  Willie  is  sorry  he  struck 
you,  and  will  never  do  so  again,  if  you  will  forgive  him." 

In  a  much  gentler  tone  than  she  would  have  assumed  had 
not  her  husband  been  present,  Mrs.  Hamilton  replied,  *'  I 
can  forgive  you  for  striking  me,.  Willie,  but  what  have  you 
to  say  about  untying  yourself?  " 

"I  didn't  do  it,"  said  Willie,  "Leno  did  that." 

"Be  careful  what  you  say,"  returned  Mrs.  Hamilton. 
"  I  can't  believe  Lenora  would  do  so." 

Ere  Willie  had  time  to  repeat  his  assertion,  Lenora, 
who  all  the  time  had  been  standing  by  the  door,  appeared, 
saying,  "  you  may  believe  him,  for  he  has  never  been 
whipped  to  make  him  lie.  I  did  do  it,  and  I  would  do  it 
again." 

"  Lenora,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton,  rather  sternly,  "  you 
should  not  interfere  in  that  manner.  You  will  spoil  the 
child." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  presumed  to  reprove  his 
step-daughter,  and  as  there  was  nothing  on  earth  which 
Mrs.  Hamilton  so  much  feared  as  Lenora's  tongue,  she 
dreaded  the  disclosures  which  farther  remark  from  her 
husband  might  call  forth.  So,  assuming  an  air  of  great 
distress,  she  said,  "  leave  her  to  me,  my  dear.  She  is  a 
strange  girl,  as  I  always  told  you,  and  no  one  can  man. 
age  her  as  well  as  myself."  Then  kissing  Willie  in  token 
of  forgiveness,  she  left  the  room,  drawing  Lenora  after 
her  juul  whispering  lu.'rcdy  in  her  ear,  "how  can  you 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  63 

ever  expect  to  succeed  with  the  son,  if  you  show  off  this 
way  before  the  father." 

With  a  mocking  laugh,  Lenora  replied,  "Pshaw!  I 
gave  that  up  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him,  for  of  course 
he  thinks  me  a  second  edition  of  Mrs.  Carter,  minus  any 
improvements.  But,  he's  mistaken ;  I'm  not  half  as  batl 
as  I  seem.  I'm  only  what  you've  made  me." 

Mrs.  Hamilton  turned  away,  thinking  that  if  her  daugh 
ter  could  so  easily  give  up  Walter  Hamilton,  she  would 
not.  She  was  resolved  upon  an  alliance  between  him  and 
Lenora.  And  who  ever  knew  her  to  fail  in  what  she 
undertook ! 

She  had  wrung  from  her  husband  the  confession,  that 
"he  believed  there  was  a  sort  of  childish  affection  be 
tween  Walter  and  Kate  Kirby,  though  'twas  doubtful 
whether  it  ever  amounted  to  anything."  She  had  also 
learned  that  he  was  rather  averse  to  the  match,  and 
though  Lenora  had  not  yet  been  named  'as  a  substitute 
for  Kate,  she  strove,  in  many  ways,  to  impress  her  hus 
band  with  a  sense  of  her  daughter's  superior  abilities,  at 
the  same  time  taking  pains  to  mortify  Margaret  by  set 
ting  Lenora  above  her. 

For  this,  however,  Margaret  cared  but  little,  and  it 
was  only  when  her  mother  ill-treated  Willie,  which  she 
frequently  did,  that  her  spirit  was  fully  roused. 

At  Mrs.  Hamilton's  first  marriage  she  had  been  pre 
sented  with  a  handsome  glass  pitcher,  which  she  of  course 
greatly  prized.  One  day  it  stood  upon  the  stand  in  her 
room,  where  Willie  was  also  playing  with  some  spools, 
which  Lenora  had  found  and  arranged  for  him.  Malta, 
the  pet  kitten,  was  amusing  herself  by  running  after  the 
spools,  and  when  at  last  Willie,  becoming  tired,  laid  them 
on  the  stand,  she  sprang  toward  them,  upsetting  the 
pitcher,  which  was  broken  in  a  dozen  pieces.  On  hearing 


64  THE  HOMESTEAD  OX  THE  HILLSIDE. 

the  crash,  Mrs.  Hamilton  hastened  toward  the  room, 
where  the  sight  of  her  favorite  pitcher  in  fragments 
greatly  enraged  her.  Thinking,  of  course,  that  Willie  had 
done  it,  she  rudely  seized  him  by  the  arm,  administered 
a  cuif  or  so,  and  then  dragged  him  toward  the  china 
closet. 

As  soon  as  Willie  could  regain  his  breath,  he  screamed, 
"  Oh,  ma,  don't  shut  me  up ;  I'll  be  good ;  I  didn't  do  it, 
certain  true ;  kittie  knocked  it  off." 

"  None  of  your  lies,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton."  It's  likely 
kittie  knocked  it  off!  " 

Lenora,  who  had  seen  the  whole,  and  knew  that  what 
Willie  said  was  true,  was  about  coming  to  the  rescue, 
when  looking  up,  she  saw  Margaret,  with  dilated  nostrils 
and  eyes  flashing  fire,  watching  the  proceedings  of  ber 
step-mother. 

"  He's  safe,"  thought  Lenora ;  "  I'll  let  Mag  fire  the  £1  st 
gun,  and  then  I'll  bring  up  the  rear." 

Margaret  had  never  known  Willie  to  tell  a  lie,  and  had 
no  reason  for  thinking  he  had  done  so  in  this  instance. 
Besides,  the  blows  her  mother  gave  him  exasperated  her, 
and  she  stepped  forward,  just  as  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  about 
pushing  him  into  the  closet.  So  engrossed  was  that  lady 
that  she  heard  not  Margaret's  approach,  until  a  firm  hand 
was  laid  upon  her  shoulder,  while  Willie  was  violently 
wrested  from  her  grasp,  and  ere  she  could  recover  from 
her  astonishment,  she  herself  was  pushed  into  the  closet, 
the  door  of  which  was  closed  and  locked  against  her. 

v  Bravo,  Margaret  Hamilton,"  cried  Lenora,  "I'm  with 
you  now,  if  I  never  was  before.  It  serves  her  right,  for 
Willie  told  the  truth.  I  was  sitting  by  and  saw  it  all. 
Keep  her  in  there  an  hour,  will  you  ?  It  will  pay  her  for 
the  many  times  she  has  shut  me  up  for  nothing" 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  65 

Mrs.  Hamilton  stamped  and  pushed  against  the  door, 
while  Leriora  danced  and  sung  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 

"  My  dear  precious  mother  got  wrathy  one  Jay 

And  seize^l  HUle  Will  by  the  hair; 
But  when  in  the  closet  she'd  stow  him  a\vay, 
She  herself  was  pushed  headlong  in  there." 

At  length  the  bolt,  yielding  to  the  continued  pressure 
of  Mrs.  Hamilton's  body,  broke,  and  out  came  the  terma 
gant,  foaming  with  rage.  She  dared  not  molest  Margaret, 
of  whose  physical  powers  she  had  just  received  such  mor 
tifying  proof,  so  she  aimed  a  box  at  the  ears  of  Lenora. 
But  the  lithe  little  thing  dodged  it,  and  with  one  bound 
cleared  the  table  which  sat  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
landing  safely  on  the  other  side ;  and  then,  shaking  her 
short,  black  curls  at  her  mother,  she  said,  "  You  didn't 
come  it,  that  time,  my  darling." 

Mr.  Hamilton,  who  chanced  to  be  absent  for  a  few 
days,  was,  on  his  return,  regaled  with  an  exaggerated 
account  of  the  proceeding,  his  wife  ending  her  discourse 
by  saying  — "  If  you  don't  do  something  with  your  up 
start  daughter,  I'll  leave  the  house ;  yes,  I  will." 

Mr.  Hamilton  was  cowardly.  He  was  afraid  of  hia 
wife,  and  he  was  afraid  of  Mag.  So  he  tried  to  compro 
mise  the  matter,  by  promising  the  one  that  he  surely 
would  see  to  it,  and  by  asking  the  other  if  she  were  not 
ashamed.  But  old  Polly  didn't  let  the  matter  pass  so 
easily.  She  was  greatly  shocked  at  having  "  such  shame- 
fill  carryin's  on  in  a  decent  man's  house." 

" '  Clare  for't,"  said  she,  "  I'll  give  marster  a  piece  of 
Folly  Pepper's  mind  the  fust  time  I  get  a  lick  at  him." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  Mr.  Hamilton  had  occasion 
to  go  for  something  into  Aunt  Polly's  dominions.  The 
old  lady  was  ready  for  him.  "  Mr.  Hampleton,"  said  she, 
"  I've  been  waitin'  to  see  you  this  long  spell," 


66  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  To  sec  me,  Polly  ?  "  said  he ;  "  what  do  you  want  ?  » 

"  What  I  wants  is  this,"  answered  Polly,  dropping  into 
a  chair.  "  I  want  to  know  what  this  house  is  a  comin'  to, 
with  such  bedivilment  in  it  as  there's  been  since  madam 
came  here  with  that  little  black-headed,  ugly-favored,  ill- 
begotten,  Satan-possessed,  shoulder-unj'inted  young-one 
of  her'n.  It's  been  nothin'  but  a  rowdedow  the  whole 
time,  and  you  hain't  grit  enough  to  stop  it.  Madam 
boxes  Willie,  and  undertakes  to  shet  him  up  for  a  lie  he 
never  told ;  Miss  Margaret  interferes  jest  as  she  or'to,  takes 
Willie  away,  and  shets  up  madam  ;  while -that  ill-marnered 
Lenora  jumps  and  screeches  loud  enough  to  wake  the 
dead.  Madam  busts  the  door  down,  and  pitches  into  tho 
varmint,  who  jumps  spang  over  a  four  foot  table,  which 
Lord  knows  I  never  could  have  done  in  my  spryest 
days." 

"  But  how  can  I  help  all  this  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hamilton. 

"  Help  it  ?  "  returned  Polly,  "  You  needn't  have  got 
into  the  fire  in  the  fust  place.  I  hain't  lived  fifty  odd 
year  for  nothin',  and  though  I  hain't  no  larnin',  I  know 
too  much  to  heave  myself  away  on  the  fust  nussin'  wo 
man  that  comes  along." 

"  Stop,  Polly ;  you  must  not  speak  so  of  M^s  Hamil 
ton,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton;  while  Polly  continued:  "And 
I  wouldn't  nuther,  if  she  could  hold  a  candle  to  the  t'other 
one ;  but  she  can't.  You'd  no  business  to  marry  a  second 
time,  even  if  you  didn't  many  a  nuss ;  neither  has  any 
man,  who's  got  growd  up  gals,  and  a  faithful  critter  like 
Polly  in  the  kitchen.  Step-mothers  don't  often  do  well ; 
particularly  them  as  is  sot  up  by  marryin'." 

Here  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  did  not  like  to  hear  so  much 
truth,  left  the  kitchen,  while  Aunt  Polly  said  to  herself, 
"  I've  gin  it  to  him  good,  this  time." 

Lonora,  who  always  happened  to  be  near  when  she  was 


DOMESTIC  LlFfi  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  07 

talked  about,  had  overheard  the  whole,  and  repeated  it  to 
her  mother.  Accordingly,  that  very  afternoon  word 
came  to  the  kitchen  that  Mrs,  Hamilton  wished  to  see 
Polly. 

"Reckon  she'll  find  this  child  ain't  afeard  on  her,"  srid 
Polly,  as  she  wiped  the  flour  from  her  face  and  repaiied 
to  Mrs.  Hamilton's  room. 

"  Polly,"  began  that  lady,  with  a  very  grave  face,  "  Le- 
nora  tells  me  that  you  have  been  talking  very  disrespect 
fully  to  Mr.  Hamilton." 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  can't  he  fight  his  own  ba1> 
ties  ? "  interrupted  Polly.  "  I  only  tried  to  show  him 
that  he  was  henpecked,  and  he  is." 

"  It  isn't  of  him  alone  I  would  speak,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  with  stately  gravity ;  "  you  spoke  insultingly 
of  me,  and  as  I  make  it  a  practice  never  to  keep  a  servant 
after  they  get  insolent,  I  have " 

'*  For  the  dear  Lord's  sake,"  again  interrupted  Polly, 
"  I  'spect  we's  the  fust  servants  you  ever  had." 

"  Good !  "  said  a  voice  from  some  quarter,  and  Mrs. 
Hamilton  continued :  "  I  have  sent  for  you  to  give  you 
twenty-four  hours'  warning  to  leave  this  house." 

"  I  shan't  budge  an  inch  until  marster  says  so,"  said 
Polly.  "  Wonder  who's  the  best  title  deed  here  ?  Warn't 
I  here  long  afore  you  come  a  nussin'  t'other  one  ?  " 

And  Polly  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  secretly  fearing 
that  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  she  knew  was  wholly  ruled  by 
his  wife,  would  say  that  she  must  go.  And  he  did  say  so, 
though  much  against  his  will.  Lenora  ran  with  the  de 
cision  to  Aunt  Polly,  causing  her  to  drop  a  loaf  of  new 
bread.  But  the  old  negress  chased  her  from  the  cellar 
with  the  oven  broom,  and  then  stealing  by  a  back  stair 
case  to  Margaret's  room,  laid  the  case  before  her,  ac 
knowledging  that  she  was  sorry  and  asking  her  young 


68  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

mistress  to  intercede  for  her.  Margaret  stepped  to  tha 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  calling  to  her  father,  requested 
him  to  come  for  a  moment  to  her  room.  This  he  was  more 
ready  to  do,  as  he  had  no  suspicion  why  he  was  sent  for, 
but  on  seeing  old  Polly,  he  half  resolved  to  turn  back 
Margaret,  however,  led  him  into  the  room,  and  then  en 
treated  him  not  to  send  away  one  who  had  served  him  sc 
long,  and  so  faithfully. 

Polly,  too,  joined  in  with  her  tears  and  prayers,  saying, 
"  She  was  an  old  black  fool  any  way,  and  let  her  tongue 
get  the  better  on  her,  though  she  didn't  mean  to  say  more 
than  was  true,  and  reckoned  she  hadn't." 

In  his  heart  Mr.  Hamilton  wished  to  revoke  what  he 
had  said,  but  dread  of  the  explosive  storm  which  he  knew 
would  surely  follow,  made  him  irresolute,  until  Carrie 
said,  "  Father,  the  first  person  of  whom  I  have  any  definite 
recollection  is  Aunt  Polly,  and  I  shall  be  so  lonesome  if 
she  goes  away.  For  my  sake  let  her  stay,  at  least  until  I 
am  dead." 

This  decided  the  matter.  "  She  shall  stay,"  said  Mr. 
Hamilton,  and  Aunt  Polly,  highly  elated,  returned  to  the 
kitchen  with  the  news.  Lenora,  who  seemed  to  be  every 
where  at  once,  overheard  it,  and,  bent  on  mischief,  ran 
with  it  to  her  mother.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Hamilton 
wished,  yet  dreaded,  to  go  down,  and  finally,  mentally 
cursing  himself  for  his  weakness,  asked  Margaret  to  ac 
company  him.  She  was  about  to  comply  wit  h  his  request, 
when  Mrs.  Hamilton  came  up  the  stairs,  furious  at  her 
husband,  whom  she  called  "a  craven  coward,  led  by  the 
nose  by  all  who  chose  to  lead  him."  Wishing  to  shut  out 
her  noise,  Mag  closed  arid  bolted  the  door,  and  in  the 
hall  the  modern  Xantippe  expended  her  wrath  against 
her  husband  anl  his  offspring,  while  poor  Mr.  Hamilton 
laid  his  fact  in  Carrie's  lap  and  wept.  Margaret  was  try 


DOMESTIC  LIFE  AT  THE  HOMESTEAD.  69 

ing  to  devise  some  means  by  which  to  rid  herself  of  hei 
step-mother,  when  Lenora  was  heard  to  exclaim,  "  shall  I 
pitch  her  over  the  stairs,  Mag?  I  will  if  you  say  so." 

Immediately  Mrs.  Hamilton's  anger  took  another  chan 
nel,  and  turning  upon  her  daughter,  she  said,  u  What  are 
you  here  for,  you  prating  parrot !  Didn't  you  tell  mo 
what  Aunt  Polly  said,  and  haven't  you  acted  in  the  ca 
pacity  of  reporter  ever  since  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  did,"  said  Lenora,  poising  herself  011  one 
foot,  and  whirling  around  in  circles ;  "  but  if  you  thought 
I  did  it  because  I  blamed  Aunt  Polly,  you  are  mistaken." 

"  What  did  you  do  it  for,  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hamilton ; 
and  Lenora,  giving  the  finishing  touch  to  her  circles  by 
dropping  upon  the  floor,  answered,  "  I  like  to  live  in  a 
hurricane  —  so  I  told  you  what  I  did.  Now,  if  you  think 
it  will  add  at  all  to  the  excitement  of  the  present  occasion, 
I'll  get  an  ax  for  you  to  split  the  door  down." 

"  Oh,  don't,  Lenora,"  screamed  Carrie,  from  within,  to 
which  Lenora  responded,  "  Poor  little  simple  chick  bird, 
I  wouldn't  harm  a  hair  of  your  soft  head  for  anything. 
But  there  is  a  man  in  there,  or  one  who  passes  for  a  man, 
that  I  think  would  look  far  more  respectable  if  he'd  come 
out  and  face  the  tornado.  She's  easy  to  manage  when 
you  know  how.  At  least,  Mag  and  I  find  her  so." 

Here  Mr.  Hamilton,  ashamed  of  himself  and  emboldened, 
perhaps,  by  Lenora's  words,  slipped  back  the  bolt  of  the 
door,  and  walking  out,  confronted  his  wife. 

"  Shall  I  order  pistols  and  coffee  for  two  ?  "  asked  Le 
nora,  swinging  herself  entirely  over  the  bannister,  and 
dropping  like  a  squirrel  on  the  stair  below. 

"  Is  Polly  going  to  stay  in  this  house  ?  "  asked  Mrs 
Hamilton. 

"  She  is,"  Avas  the  reply. 

"  Then  I  leave  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton. 


70  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"Very  well,  you  can  go,"  returned  the  hiuband,  grow 
jig  stronger  in  himself  each  moment. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  turned  away  to  her  own  room,  where 
she  remained  until  supper  time,  when  Lenora  asked  "  if 
she  had  got  her  chest  packed,  and  where  they  should 
direct  their  letters !  "  Neither  Margaret  nor  her  father 
could  refrain  from  laughter.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  too,  who 
had  no  notion  of  leaving  the  comfortable  homestead,  and 
who  thought  this  as  good  a  time  to  veer  round  as  any 
she  would  have,  also  joined  in  the  laugh,  saying,  "  What 
a  child  you  are,  Lenora !  " 

Gradually  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  homestead  was 
noised  throughout  the  village,  and  numerous  were  the  lit 
tle  tea  parties  where  none  dared  speak  above  a  whisper, 
to  tell  what  they  had  heard,  and  where  each  and  every 
one  were  bound  to  the  most  profound  secrecy,  for  fear 
the  reports  might  not  be  true.  At  length,  however,  the 
story  of  the  china  closet  got  out,  causing  Sally  Martin  to 
spend  one  whole  day  in  retailing  the  gossip  from  door  to 
door.  Many,  too,  suddenly  remembered  certain,  suspi 
cious  things  which  they  had  seen  in  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who 
was  unanimously  voted  to  be  a  bad  woman,  and  who,  of 
course,  began  to  be  slighted. 

The  result  of  this  was,  to  increase  the  sourness  of  her 
disposition ;  and  life  at  the  homestead  would  have  been 
one  continuous  scene  of  turmoil,  had  not  Margaret  wisely 
concluded  to  treat  whatever  her  step-mother  did  with  si 
lent  contempt.  Lenora,  too,  always  seemed  ready  to  fill 
up  all  vacant  niches,  until  even  Mag  acknowledged  that 
the  mother  would  be  unendurable  without  the  daughter, 


LENOEA  AN  D  CAEEIE.  7 1 

CHAPTER  IX. 

LENOEA    AND     CAEEIE. 

EVEE  since  the  day  on  which  Lenora  had  startled  Car- 
tie  by  informing  her  of  her  danger,  she  had  been  carefully 
kept  from  the  room,  or  allowed  only  to  enter  it  when 
Margaret  was  present.  One  afternoon,  however,  early  in 
February,  Mag  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  village.  Le- 
nora,  who  saw  her  depart,  hastily  gathered  up  her  work, 
and  repaired  to  Carrie's  room,  saying,  as  she  entered  it, 
"  Now,  Carrie,  we'll  have  a  good  time ;  Mag  has  gone  to 
see  old  deaf  Peggy,  who  asks  a  thousand  questions,  and 
will  keep  her  at  least  two  hours,  and  I  am  going  to  enter 
tain  you  to  the  best  of  my  ability." 

Carrie's  cheek  flushed,  for  she  felt  some  misgivings  with 
regard  to  the  nature  of  Lenora's  entertainment ;  but  she 
knew  there  was  no  help  for  it,  so  she  tried  to  smile,  and 
said,  "  I  am  willing  you  should  stay,  Lenora,  but  you 
mustn't  talk  bad  things  to  me,  for  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Bad  things !  "  repeated  Lenora,  "  Who  ever  heard 
me  talk  bad  things  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  said  Carrie,  "  that  you  must  not  talk  about 
your  mother,  as  you  sometimes  do.  It  is  wicked." 

"  Why,  you  dear  little  thing,"  answered  Lenora,  "  don't 
you  know  that  what  would  be  wicked  for  you,  isn't  wicked 
for  me  ?  » 

,  "No,  I  do  not  know  so,"  answered  Carrie;  "but  I 
know  I  wouldn't  talk  about  my  mother  as  you  do  about 
yours,  for  anything." 

"  Bless  your  heart,"  said  Lenora,  "  have  n't  you  sense 
enough  to  see  that  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
Mrs.  Hamilton  1st,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  2d?  Now,  I'D? 


T2  THE  HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

not  naturally  bad,  and  if  I  had  been  the  daughter  cf  Mrs, 
Hamilton  1st,  instead  of  Widow  Carter's  young-one,  why, 
I  should  have  been  as  good  as  you  5—7- no,  not  as  good  as 
you,  for  you  don't  know  enough  to  be  bad, — but  as  good 
as  Mag,  who,  in  my  opinion,  has  the  right  kind  of  good 
ness,  for  all  I  used  to  hate  her  so." 

"Hate  Margaret!"  said  Carrie,  opening  her  eyes  to 
their  utmost  extent.  "What  did  you  hate  Margaret 
for  ?  " 

"  Because  I  didn't  know  her,  I  suppose,"  returned  Le- 
nora;  "for  now  I  like  her  well  enough — not  quite  as  well 
as  I  do  you,  perhaps;  and  yet,  when  I  see  you  bear 
mother's  abuse  so  meekly,  I  positively  hate  you  for  a  min 
ute,  and  ache  to  box  your  ears ;  but  when  Mag  squares 
up  to  her,  shuts  her  in  the  china  closet,  and  all  that,  I 
M'unt  to  put  my  arms  right  round  her  neck." 

"  Why,  don't  you  like  your  mother  ?  "  asked  Carrie ; 
and  Lenora  replied :  "  Of  course  I  do ;  but  I  know  what 
she  is,  and  I  know  she  is  n't  what  she  sometimes  seems. 
Why,  she'd  be  anything  to  suit  the  circumstances.  She 
wanted  your  father,  and  she  assumed  the  character  most 
likely  to  secure  him;  for,  between  you  and  me,  he  isn't 
very  smart." 

"What  did  she  marry  him  for,  then? "  asked  Carrie. 

"  Marry  him  !  I  hope  you  don't  for  a  moment  suppose 
she  married  him  !  " 

"  Why,  Lenora,  airft  they  married?  I  thought  they 
were.  Oh,  dreadful!"  and  Carrie  started  to  her  feet, 
while  the  perspiration  stood  thickly  on  her  forehead. 

Lenora  screamed  with  delight,  saying,  "  You  certainly 
have  the  softest  brain  I  ever  saw.  Of  course  the  minister 
went  through  with  the  ceremony ;  but  it  was  not  your 
father  that  mother  wanted ;  it  was  his  house — his  money 
— his  horses — liis  servants,  and  his  name.  Now,  may  be, 


LENOEA   AND  CAEEIE.  73 

in  your  simplicity,  you  have  thought  that  mother  came 
here  out  of  kindness  to  the  motherless  children ;  but  I 
tell  you,  she  would  be  better  satisfied  if  neither  of  you 
had  ever  been  born.  I  suppose  it  is  wicked  in  me  to  say 
so,  but  I  think  she  makes  me  worse  than  I  would  other 
wise  be ;  for  I  am  not  naturally  so  bad,  and  I  like  people 
much  better  than  I  pretend  to.  Any  way,  I  like  you, 
and  love  little  Willie,  and  always  have,  since  the  first  tiniQ 
I  saw  him.  Your  mother  lay  in  her  coffin,  and  Willie 
stood  by  her,  caressing  her  cold  cheek,  and  saying, 
"  Wake  up,  mamma,  it's  Willie ;  don't  you  know  Willie  ?  " 
I  took  him  in  my  arms,  and  vowed  to  love  and  shield  him 
from  the  coming  evil ;  for  I  knew  then,  as  well  as  I  do 
now,  that  what  has  happened  would  happen.  Mag  wasn't 
there;  she  didn't  see  me.  If  he  had,  she  might  have 
liked  me  better;  now  she  thinks  there  is  no  good  in 
me;  and  if,  when  you  die,  I  should  feel  like  shedding 
tears,  and  perhaps  I  shall,  it  would  be  just  like  her  to 
wonder  'what  business/  had  to  cry  —  it  was  none  of  my 
funeral ! ' " 

"You  do  wrong  to  talk  so,  Lenora,"  said  Carrie- 
"  but  tell  me,  did  you  never  have  any  one  to  love  except 
Willie  ?  » 

"  Yes,"  said  Lenora ;  "  when  I  was  a  child,  a  little,  in 
nocent  child,  I  had  a  grandmother — my  father's  mother — 
who  taught  me  to  pray,  and  told  me  of  God." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  asked  Carrie. 

"In  heaven,"  was  the  answer.  "I  know  she  is  there, 
because  when  she  died,  there  was  the  same  look  on  her 
face  that  there  was  on.  four  mother's — the  same  that  there; 
will  be  on  yours,  when  you  are  dead. " 

"  Never  mind,"  gasped  Carrie,  who  did  not  care  to  be 
so   frequently  reminded  of  her  mortality,  while  Lenora 
continued :  "  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  ns\y  father  was 
D 


74  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

as  mother  says,  a  bad  man ;  though  I  always  loved  him 
dearly,  and  cried  when  he  went  away.  We  lived  with 
grandmother,  and  sometimes  now,  in  my  dreams,  I  am 
a  child  again,  kneeling  by  grandma's  side,  in  our  dear  old 
eastern  home,  where  the  sunshine  fell  so  warmly,  where 
the  summer  birds  sang  in  the  old  maple  trees,  and  whera 
the  long  shadows,  which  I  called  spirits,  came  and  went 
over  the  bright  green  meadows.  But  there  was  a  sadder 
day ;  a  narrow  coffin,  a  black  hearse,  and  a  tolling  bell, 
which  always  wakes  me  from  my  sleep,  and  I  find  the 
dream  all  gone,  and  nothing  left  of  the  little  child  but  the 
wicked  Lenora  Carter." 

Here  the  dark  girl  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
wept,  wrhile  Carrie  gently  smoothed  her  tangled  curls. 
After  a  while,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  emotion,  Lenora  dried- 
her  tears,  and  Carrie  said,  "  Tell  me  more  of  your  early 
life.  I  like  you  when  you  act  as  you  do  now." 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  tell  but  wickedness,"  an- 
swered  Lenora.  "  Grandma  died,  and  I  had  no  one  to 
teach  me  what  was  right.  About  a  year  after  her  death, 
mother  wanted  to  get  a  divorce  from  father ;  and  one 
day  she  told  me  that  a  lawyer  was  coming  to  inquire 
about  my  father's  treatment  of  her.  '  Perhaps,'  said  she, 
4  he  will  ask  if  you  ever  saw  him  strike  me,  and  you  must 
say  that  you  have,  a  great  many  times.'  '  But  I  never 
did,'  said  I ;  and  then  she  insisted  upon  my  telling  that 
falsehood,  and  I  refused,  until  she  whipped  me,  and  made 
me  promise  to  say  whatever  she  wished  me  to.  In  this 
way  I  was  trained  to  be  what  I  am.  Nobody  loves  me  ; 
nobody  ever  can  love  me;  and  sometimes  when  Mag 
speaks  so  kindly  to  you,  and  looks  so  affectionately  upon 
you,  I  think,  what  would  I  not  give  for  some  one  to  love 
me ;  and  then  I  go  away  to  cry,  and  wish  I  had  never 
born." 


LENORA  AJSTD  CARRIE.  75 

Here  Mrs.  Hamilton  called  to  her  daughter,  and,  gath 
ering  up  her  work,  Lenora  left  the  room  just  as  Margaret 
entered  it,  on  her  return  from  the  village. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DARKNESS. 

As  the  spring  opened  and  the  days  grew  wanner,  Car 
rie's  health  seemed  much  improved ;  and,  though  she  did 
not  leave  her  room,  she  was  able  to  sit  up  nearly  all  day, 
busying  herself  with  some  light  work.  Ever  hopeful, 
Margaret  hugged  to  her  bosom  the  delusion  which  whis 
pered,  "  she  will  not  die,"  while  even  the  physician  was 
deceived,  and  spoke  encouragingly  of  her  recovery. 

For  several  months  Margaret  had  thought  of  visiting 
her  grandmother,  who  lived  hi  Albany ;  and  as  Mr.  Ham 
ilton  had  occasion  to  visit  that  city,  Carrie  urged  her  to 
accompany  him,  saying  she  was  perfectly  able  to  be  left 
alone,  and  she  wished  her  sister  would  go,  for  the  trip 
would  do  her  good. 

For  some  time  past,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  seemed  ex 
ceedingly  amiable  and  affectionate,  although  her  husband 
appeared  greatly  depressed,  and  acted,  as  Lenora  said, 
"just  as  though  he  had  been  stealing  sheep." 

"  This  depression  Mag  had  tried  in  vain  to  fathom.,  and 
at  last  fancying  that  a  change  of  place  and  scene  might 
do  him  good,  she  consented  to  accompany  him,  on  condi 
tion  that  Kate  Kirby  would  stay  with  Carrie.  At  the 
mention  of  Kate's  name,  Mr.  Hamilton's  eyes  instantly 
went  over  to  his  wife,  whose  face  wore  the  same  calm, 


76  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

stony  expression,  as  she  answered,  "  Yes,  Maggie,  Kate 
can  come." 

Accordingly,  on  the  morning  when  the  travelers  would 
•tart,  Kate  came  up  to  the  homestead,  receiving  a  thou 
sand  and  one  directions  about  what  to  do  and  when  to 
do  it,  hearing  not  more  than  half  the  injunctions,  and 
promising  to  comply  with  every  one.  Long  before  the 
door  the  carriage  waited,  while  Margaret,  lingering  in 
Carrie's  room,  kissed  again  and  again  her  sister's  pure 
brow,  and  gazed  into  her  deep  blue  eyes,  as  if  ehe  knew 
that  it  was  the  last  time.  Even  when  halfway  down  the 
stairs,  she  turned  back  again  to  say  good-by,  this  time 
whispering,  "  I  have  half  a  mind  not  to  go,  for  something 
tells  me  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

"  Oh,  Mag,"  said  Carrie,  "  don't  be  superstitious.  I 
am  a  great  deal  better,  and  when  you  come  home,  you 
will  find  me  in  the  parlor." 

In  the  lower  hall  Mr.  Hamilton  caressed  his  little  Wil 
lie,  who  begged  that  he,  too,  might  go.  "  Don't  leave  me, 
Maggie,  don't,"  said  he,  as  Mag  came  up  to  say  good-by. 

Long  years  after  the  golden  curls  which  Mag  pushed 
back  from  Willie's  forehead  were  covered  by  the  dark, 
moist  earth,  did  she  remember  her  baby-brother's  child 
ish  farewell,  and  oft  in  bitterness  of  heart  she  asked, 
"Why  did  I  go — why  leave  my  loved  ones  to  die  alone?" 

Just  a  week  after  Mag's  departure,  news  was  received 
at  the  homestead  that  Walter  was  coming  to  Glenwood 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day, 
Kate  had  occasion  to  go  home.  As  she  was  leaving  the 
house,  Mrs.  Hamilton  detained  her,  while  she  said,  "  Miss 
Kirby,  we  are  all  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind 
ness  in  staying  with  Carrie,  although  your  services  really 
are  not  needed.  I  understand  how  matters  stand  be 
tween  you  and  Walter,  and  as  he  is  to  be  here  to-morrow, 


DAKKXESS.  77 

you  of  course  will  feel  some  delicacy  about  remaining ; 
consequently,  I  release  you  from  all  obligations  to  do  so." 

Of  course  there  was  no  demurring  to  this.  Kate'? 
pride  was  touched ;  and  though  Carrie  wept,  and  begged 
her  not  to  go,  she  yielded  only  so  far  as  to  stay  until  tho 
next  morning,  when,  with  a  promise  to  call  frequently, 
she  left.  Lonely  and  long  seemed  the  hours  to  poor  Car 
rie  ;  for,  though  Walter  came,  he  staid  but  two  days,  and 
spent  a  part  of  that  time  at  the  mill-pond  cottage. 

The  evening  after  he  went  away,  as  Carrie  lay,  half 
dozing,  thinking  of  Mag,  and  counting  the  weary  days 
which  must  pass  ere  her  return,  she  was  startled  by  the. 
sound  of  Lenora's  voice,  in  the  room  opposite,  the  door 
of  which  was  ajar.  Lenora  had  been  absent  a  few  days, 
and  Carrie  was  about  calling  to  her,  when  some  words 
spoken  by  her  step-mother  arrested  her  attention,  and 
roused  her  curiosity.  They  were,  "  You  think  too  little 
of  yourself,  Lenora.  Now,  I  know  there  is  nothing  in 
the  way  of  your  winning  "Walter,  if  you  choose." 

"I  should  say  there  was  everything  in  the  way,"  an 
swered  Lenora.  "  In  the  first  place,  there  is  Kate  Kirby ; 
and  who,  after  seeing  her  handsome  face,  would  ever  look 
at  such  a  black,  turned-up  nose,  bristle-headed  thing  as  I 
am.  But  I  perceive  there  is  some  weighty  secret  on  your 
mind,  so  what  is  it  ?  Have  Walter  and  Kate  quarreled, 
or  have  you  told  him  some  falsehood  about  her  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "  What  I  have  to  say, 
concerns  your  father." 

"My  father!"  interrupted  Lenora;  "my  own  father! 
Oh,  is  he  living  ?  " 

"  No,  I  hope  not,"  was  the  answer ;  "  it  is  Mr.  Hamil 
ton  whom  I  mean." 

Instantly  Lenora's  tone  changed,  and  she  replied,  "  If 
you  please,  you  need  not  call  that  putty-headed  man 


?8  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE    HILLSIDE. 

Hit/  lather,  lie  acts  too  much  like  a  whipped  spaniel  to 
suit  me,  and  I  really  think  Carrie  ought  to  be  respected 
for  knowing  what  little  she  does,  while  I  wonder  where 
Walter,  Mag,  and  Willie  got  their  good  sense.  But  what 
is  it  ?  What  have  you  made  Mr.  Hamilton  do  ?  some 
thing  ridiculous,  of  course." 

"  I've  made  him  make  his  will,"  was  the  answer ;  while 
Lcnora  continued  :  "  Well,  what  then  ?  What  good  will 
that  do  me  ?  " 

"  It  may  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good,"  said  Mrs.  Ham 
ilton  ;  "  that  is,  if  Walter  likes  the  homestead  as  I  think 
he  does.  But  I  tell  you,  it  was  hard  work,  and  I  did  n't 
know,  one  while,  but  I  should  have  to  give  it  up.  How 
ever,  I  succeeded,  and  he  has  willed  the  homestead  to 
Walter,  provided  he  marries  you.  If  not,  Walter  has  no- 
,hing,  and  the  homestead  comes  to  me  and  my  heirs  for 
ever  ! " 

"  Heartless  old  fool !  "  exclaimed  Lenora,  while  Carrie, 
too,  groaned  in  sympathy.  "  And  do  you  suppose  he  in 
tends  to  let  it  go  so !  Of  course  not ;  he'll  make  an 
other  when  you  don't  know  it." 

"I'll  watch  him  too  closely  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ham 
ilton  ;  and  after  a  moment  Lenora  asked,  "  what  made 
you  so  anxious  for  a  will  ?  Have  you  received  warning 
of  his  sudden  demise  !  " 

"How  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton.  "Isn't,  it  the  ea 
siest  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  let  Walter  know  what's 
in  the  will,  and  I  fancy  that '11  bring  him  to  terms,  for  ho 
likes  money,  no  mistake  about  that." 

"  Mr.  Hamilton  is  a  bigger  fool,  and  you  a  worse  wo 
man,  than  I  supposed,"  said  Lenora."  Do  you  think  I 
am  mean  enough  to  marry  Walter  under  such  circum 
stances?  Indeed,  I'm  not.  But  how  is  Carrie?  I  must 
go  and  see  her." 


DARKNESS.  7k 

She  was  about  leaving  the  room,  when  she  turned  back, 
saying  in  a  whisper,  "  mother,  mother,  her  door  is  wide 
open,  as  well  as  this  one,  arid  she  must  have  heard  every 
word ! " 

"  Oh.  horror !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hamilton ;  "  go  in  and 
ascertain  the  fact,  if  possible." 

It  took  but  one- glance  to  convince  Lenora  that  Carrie 
was  in  possession  of  the  secret.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
her  eyes  wet  with  tears ;  and  when  Lenora  stooped  to 
kiss  her,  she  said,  "  I  know  it  all,  I  heard  it  all." 

"Then  I  hope  you  feel  better,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
coming  forward.  "Listeners  never  hear  any  good  of 
themselves." 

"  Particularly  if  it's  Widow  Carter  who  is  listened  to," 
suggested  Lenora. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  continued 
speaking  to  Carrie.  "  If  you  have  learned  anything  new, 
you  can  keep  it  to  yourself.  No  one  has  interfered  with 
you,  or  intends  to.  Your  father  has  a  right  to  do  what 
he  chooses  with  his  own,  and  I  shall  see  that  he  exercises 
that  right,  too." 

So  saying,  she  left  the  room,  while  Carrie,  again  burst 
ing  into  tears,  wept  until  perfectly  exhausted.  The  next 
morning  she  was  attacked  with  bleeding  at  the  lungs, 
which,  in  a  short  time,  reduced  her  so  low  that  the  phy 
sician  spoke  doubtfully  of  her  recovery,  should  the  hem 
orrhage  again  return.  In  the  course  of  two  or  three 
days  she  was  again  attacked ;  and  now,  when  there  was 
no  longer  hope  of  life,  her  thoughts  turned  with  earnest 
longings  toward  her  absent  father  and  sister,  and  once, 
as  the  physician  was  preparing  to  leave  her,  she  said, 
"  Doctor,  tell  me  truly,  can  1  live  twenty-four  hours  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  may,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Then  I  shall  see  them,  for  if  you  telegraph  to-night, 


80  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

they  can  come  in  the  morning  train.  Go  yourself  and 
see  it,  done,  will  you  ?  " 

The  physician  promised  that  he  would,  and  then  left 
her  room.  In  the  hall  lie  met  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who,  with 
the  utmost  anxiety  depicted  upon  her  countenance,  said, 
"Dear  Carrie  is  leaving  us,  isn't  she?  I  have  tele 
graphed  for  her  father,  who  will  be  here  in  the  morning. 
'Twos  right  to  do  so,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Quite  right,"  answered  the  physician.  "  I  promised 
to  see  to  it  myself,  and  was  just  going  to  do  so." 

"Poor  child,"  returned  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "she  feels 
anxious,  I  suppose.  But  I  have  saved  you  the  trouble." 

The  reader  will  not,  perhaps,  be  greatly  surprised  to 
learn  that  what  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  said  was  falpe.  She 
suspected  that  one  reason  why  Carrie  so  greatly  desired 
to  see  her  father,  was  to  tell  him  what  she  had  heard, 
and  beg  of  him  to  undo  what  he  had  done ;  and  as  she 
feared  the  effect  which  the  sight  and  words  of  his  dying 
child  might  have  upon  him,  she  resolved,  if  possible,  to 
keep  him  away  until  Carrie's  voice  was  hushed  in  death. 
Overhearing  what  had  been  said  by  the  doctor,  she  re« 
sorted  to  the  stratagem  of  which  we  have  just  spoken. 
The  next  morning,  however,  she  ordered  a  telegram  to 
be  dispatched,  knowing,  full  well,  that  her  husband  could 
not  reach  home  until  the  day  following. 

Meantime,  as  the  hour  for  the  morning  train  drew 
near.  Carrie,  resting  upon  pillows,  and  whiter  than  the 
linen  which  covered  them,  strained  her  cars  to  catch  the 
first  sound  of  the  locomotive.  At  last,  far  off  through 
an  opening  among  the  hills,  was  heard  a  rumbling  noise, 
which  increased  each  moment  in  loudness,  until  the  puff- 
tog  engine  shot  out  into  the  long,  green  valley,  and  then 
rolled  rapidly  up  to  the  depot. 

Little  Willie  had  seemed  unwell  for  a  few  days,  but 


DAEKNESS.  8J 

since  his  sister's  illness  lie  had  staid  by  her  almost  con 
stantly,  gazing  half  curiously,  half  timidly  into  her  face, 
and  asking  if  she  were  going  to  the  home  where  his 
mamma  lived.  She  had  told  him  that  Margaret  was 
Doming,  and  when  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  eastern  train 
sounded  'through  the  room,  he  ran  to  the  window, 
whither  Lenora  had  preceded  him,  and  there  together 
they  watched  for  the  coming  of  the  omnibus.  A  sinister 
smile  curled  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  was  present, 
and  who,  of  course,  affected  to  feel  interested. 

At  last  Willie,  clapping  his  hands,  exclaimed,  "  There 
'tis!  They're  coming.  That's  Maggie's  big  trunk!" 
Then,  noticing  the  glow  which  his  announcement  called 
up  to  Carrie's  cheek,  he  said,  "she'll  make  you  well, 
Carrie,  Maggie  will.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,  and  so  is  Leno." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  omnibus,  brighter  and 
deeper  grew  the  flush  on  Carrie's  face,  while  little  Wil 
lie  danced  up  and  down  with  joy. 

"  It  isn't  coming  here,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "  it  haa 
gone  by,"  and  Carrie's  feverish  heat  was  succeeded  by  au 
icy  chill. 

"Haven't  they  come,  Lenora?"  she  said. 

Lenora  shook  her  head,  and  Willie,  running  to  his  sis. 
ter,  wound  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and  for  several 
minutes  the  two  lone,  motherless  children  wept. 

"  If  Maggie  knew  how  niy  head  ached,  she'd  come," 
said  Willie  ;  but  Carrie  thought  not  of  her  aching  head, 
nor  of  the  faintness  of  death  which  was  fast  coming  on. 
One  idea  alone  engrossed  her.  Her  brother ; — how  would 
he  be  saved  from  the  threatened  evil,  and  her  father's 
name  from  dishonor  ? 

At  last,  Mrs.  Hamilton  left  the  room,  and  Carrie, 
speaking  to  Lenora  and  one  of  the  villagers  who  was 
present,  asked  if  thry,  too,  would  not  leave  her  alone  for 

6 


82  THE    HOMESTEAD    OX  THE  HILLSIDE. 

a  time  with  Willie.  They  complied  with  her  request^ 
and  then  asking  her  brother  to  bring  her  pencil  and  pa 
per,  she  hurriedly  wrote  a  few  lines  to  her  father,  telling 
him  of  what  she  had  heard,  and  entreating  him,  for  her 
sake,  and  the  sake  of  the  mother  with  whom  she  would 
be  when  those  words  met  his  eye,  not  to  do  Walter  so 
great  a  wrong.  "  I  shah1  give  this  to  Willie's  care,"  she 
wrote,  in  conclusion,  u  and  he  will  keep  it  carefully  until 
you  come.  And  now,  I  bid  you  a  long  farewell,  my  pre 
cious  father, — my  noble  Mag, — my  darling  Walter." 

The  note  was  finished,  and  calling  Willie  to  her,  she 
said,  "  I  am  going  to  die.  When  Maggie  returns  I  shall 
be  dead  and  still,  like  our  own  dear  mother." 

"  Oh  Carrie,  Carrie,"  sobbed  the  child,  "  don't  leave 
me  till  Maggie  comes." 

There  was  a  footstep  on  the  stairs,  and  Carrie,  without 
replying  to  her  brother,  said  quickly,  *'  Take  this  paper, 
Willie,  and  give  it  to  father  when  he  comes ;  let  no  one 
see  it, — Lenora,  mother,  nor  any  one." 

Willie  promised  compliance,  and  had  but  just  time  to 
conceal  the  note  in  his  bosom  ere  Mrs.  Hamilton  entered 
the  room,  accompanied  by  the  physician,  to  whom  she 
loudly  expressed  her  regrets  that  her  husband  had  not 
come,  saying,  that  she  had  that  morning  telegraphed 
again,  although  he  could  not  now  reach  home  until  the 
morrow. 

"  To-morrow  I  shall  never  see,"  said  Carrie,  faintly. 
And  she  spoke  truly,  too,  for  even  then  death  was  free 
zing  her  life-blood  with  the  touch  of  his  icy  hand.  To  the 
last  she  seemed  conscious  of  the  tiny  arms  which  so  fondly 
encircled  her  neck ;  and  when  the  soul  had  drifted  fai 
out  on  the  dark  channel  of  death,  the  childish  words  of 
"  Carrie,  Carrie,  speak  once  more,"  roused  her,  and  fold 
ing  her  brother  more  closely  to  her  bosom,  she  mur 


DARKNESS.  83 

I 

mured,  "  Willie,  darling  Willie>  our  motlier  is  waiting 
for  us  both." 

Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  stood  near,  now  bent  down,  and 
laying  her  hand  on  the  pale,  damp  brow,  said  gently, 
"Carrie,  dear,  have  you  no  word  of  love  for  this 
mother?" 

There  was  a  visible  shudder,  an  attempt  to  speak,  a  low 
moan,  in  which  the  word  "  Walter "  seemed  struggling 
to  be  spoken ;  and  then  death,  as  if  impatient  of  delay, 
bore  away  the  spirit,  leaving  only  the  form  which  in  life 
had  been  most  beautiful.  Softly  Lenora  closed  over  the 
blue  eyes  the  long,  fringed  lids,  and  pushed  back  from  the 
forehead  the  sunny  tresses  which  clustered  so  thickly 
around  it ;  then,  kissing  the  white  lips  and  leaving  on  the 
face  of  the  dead  traces  of  her  tears,  she  lead  Willie  from 
the  room,  soothing  him  in  her  arms  until  he  fell  asleep. 

Elsewhere  we  have  said  that  for  a  few  days  Willie  had 
not  seemed  well ;  but  so  absorbed  were  all  in  Carrie's 
more  alarming  symptoms,  that  no  one  had  heeded  him, 
although  his  cheeks  were  flushed  with  fever,  and  his  head 
was  throbbing  with  pain.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  sleeping 
in  his  parents'  room,  and  that  night  his  loud  breathings 
and  uneasy  turnings  disturbed  and  annoyed  his  mother, 
who  at  last  called  out  in  harsh  tones,  "  Willie,  Willie,  for 
mercy's  sake  stop  that  horrid  noise !  I  shall  never  get 
sleep  this  way.  I  know  there's  no  need  of  breathing  like 
hat ! " 

"It  chokes  me  so,"  sobbed  little  Willie,  "but  I'll  try." 

Then  pressing  his  hands  tightly  over  his  mouth,  he 
tried  the  experiment  of  holding  his  breath  as  long  as 
possible.  Hearing  no  sound  from  his  mother,  he  thought 
ner  asleep,  but'  not  venturing  to  breathe  naturally  until 
assured  of  the  fact,  he  whispered,  "  Ma,  ma,  are  yo¥ 
asleep  ?  " 


84  THE  UOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  Asleep !  no, — and  never  shall  be,  as  I  see  !  What 
do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  breathe,"  said  Willie. 

"  Well,  breathe  then ;  who  hinders  you  ?  "  was  the  re 
ply  ;  and  ere  the  offensive  sound  again  greeted  her  ear, 
Mrs.  Hamilton  was  too  far  gone  in  slumber  to  be  disturbed. 

For  two  hours  Willie  lay  awake,  tossing  from  side  to 
side,  scorched  with  fever  and  longing  for  water  to  quench 
his  burning  thirst.  By  this  time  Mrs.  Hamilton  was 
again  awake ;  but  to  his  earnest  entreaties  for  water — 
"just  one  little  drop  of  water,  ma," — she  answered, 
"  William  Hamilton,  if  you  don't  be  still,  I'll  move  your 
crib  into  the  room  where  Carrie  is,  and  leave  you  there 
alone !  " 

Unlike  many  children,  Willie  had  no  fears  of  the  cold, 
white  figure  which  lay  so  still  and  motionless  upon  the 
parlor  sofa.  To  him  it  was  Carrie,  his  sister ;  and  many 
times  that  day,  had  he  stolen  in  alone,  and  laying  back 
the  thin  muslin  which  shaded  her  face,  he  had  looked 
long  upon  her; — had  laid  his  hand  on  her  icy  cheek, 
wondering  if  she  knew  how  cold  she  was,  and  if  the  way 
which  she  had  gone  was  so  long  and  dark  that  he  could 
never  find  it.  To  him.  there  was  naught  to  fear  in  that 
room  of  death,  and  to  his  mother's  threat  he  answered, 
eagerly,  "  Oh,  ma,  give  me  some  water,  just  a  little  bit  of 
water,  and  you  may  carry  me  in  there.  I  ain't  afraid, 
and  my  breathing  wont  wake  Carrie  up ; "  but  before 
he  had  finished  speaking,  his*mother  was  again  dozing. 

"Won't  anybody  bring  me  some  water, — Maggie, 
Carrie, — Leno, — nobody?"  murmured  poor  Willie,  as 
he  wet  his  pillow  with  tears. 

At  last  he  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  knew  where 
the  water-bucket  stood,  and  stepping  from  his  bed,  he 
groped  Iris  way  down  the  long  stairs  to  the  basement 


DARKNESS.  85 

The  spring  moon  was  low  in  the  western  horizon,  and 
shining  through  the  curtained  window,  dimly  lighted 
\ip  the  room.  The  pail  was  soon  reached,  and  then  in  hia 
eagerness  to  drink,  he  put  his  lips  to  the  side.  Lower, 
lower,  lower  it  came,  until  he  discovered,  alas !  that  the 
pail  was  empty. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  said  he,  as  he 
crouched  upon  the  cold  hearth-stone. 

A  new  idea  entered  his  mind.  The  well  stood  near  the 
outer  door ;  and,  quickly  pushing  back  the  bolt,  he  went 
out,  all  flushed  and  feverish  as  he  was,  into  the  chill  night 
air.  There  was  ice  upon  the  curb-stone,  but  he  did  not 
mind  it,  although  his  little  toes,  as  they  trod  upon  it, 
looked  red  by  the  pale  moonlight.  Quickly  a  cup  of  the 
coveted  water  was  drained ;  then,  with  careful  forethought, 
he  filled  it  again,  and  taking  it  back  to  his  room,  crept 
shivering  to  bed.  Nature  was  exhausted ;  and  whether 
he  fainted  or  fell  asleep  is  not  known,  for  never  again  to 
consciousness  in  this  world  awoke  the  little  boy. 

The  morning  sunlight  came  softly  in  at  the  window, 
touching  his  golden  curls  with  a  still  more  golden  hue. 
Sadly  over  him  Lenora  bent,  saying,  "Willie,  Willie! 
wake  up,  Willie.  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

Greatly  Mrs.  Hamilton  marveled  whence  came  the  cup 
of  water  which  stood  there,  as  if  reproaching  her  for  her 
cruelty.  But  the  delirious  words  of  the  dreamer  soon 
told  her  all.  "  Maggie,  Maggie,",  he  said,  "  rub  my 
feet:  they  feel  like  Carried  face.  The  curb-stone  was 
cold,  but  the  water  was  so  good.  Give  me  more,  more  ; 
mother  won't  care,  for  I  got  it  myself,  and  tried  not  tc 
breathe,  so  she  could  sleep; — and  Carrie,  too,  is  dead — 
dead." 

Lenora  fiercely  grasped  her  mother's  arm,  and   said, 


80  THE  HOMESTEAD   ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  How  could  you  refuse  him  water,  and  sleep  while  he  got 
it  himself?" 

But  Mrs.  Hamilton  needed  not  that  her  daughter 
should  accuse  her.  Willie  had  been  her  favorite,  and  the 
tears  which  she  dropped  upon  his  pillow  were  genuine. 
The  physician  who  was  called,  pronounced  his  disease  to 
be  scarlet  fever,  saying  that  its  violence  was  greatly  in 
creased  by  a  severe  cold  which  he  had  taken. 

"  You  have  killed  him,  mother ;  you  have  killed  him!" 
said  Lenora. 

Twenty-four  hours  had  passed  since,  with  straining  ear, 
Carrie  had  listened  for  the  morning  train,  and  again 
down  the  valley  floated  the  smoke  of  the  engine,  and 
over  the  blue  hills  echoed  the  loud  scream  of  the  locomo 
tive  ;  but  no  sound  could  awaken  the  fair  young  sleeper, 
though  Willie  started,  and  throwing  up  his -hands,  one  of 
which,  the  right  one,  was  firmly  clenched,  murmured, 
"Maggie,  Maggie." 

Ten  minutes  more,  and  Margaret  was  there,  weeping 
in  agony  over  the  inanimate  form  of  her  sister,  and  al 
most  shrieking  as, she  saw  Willie's  wild  eye,  and  heard 
his  incoherent  words.  Terrible  to  Mr.  Hamilton  was  this 
coming  home.  Like  one  who  walks  in  sleep,  he  went 
from  room  to  room,  kissing  the  burning  brow  of  one 
child,  and  then,  while  the  hot  breath  was  yet  warm  upon 
his  lips,  pressing  them  to  .the  cold  face  of  the  other. 

All  day  Margaret  sat  by  her  dying  brother,  praying 
that  he  might  be  spared  until  Walter  came.  Her  prayer 
was  answered  ;•.  for  at  nightfall  Walter  was  with  them. 
Half  an  hour  after  his  return,  Willie  died ;  but  ere  his 
right  hand  dropped  lifeless  by  his  side,  he  held  it  up  to 
view,  saying,  "Father, — give  it  to  nobody  but  father." 

After  a  moment,  Margaret,  taking  within  hers  the  fast 


DARKNESS.  87 

stiffening  hand,  gently  unclosed  the  finger 8,  and  found 
the  crumpled  piece  of  paper  on  which  Carrie  had  written 
to  her  father. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MAKGAEET    A  jtf  D     11  E  K    FATHER. 

TWAS  midnight  —  midnight  after  the  burial.  In  the 
.ibrary  of  the  old  homestead  sat  its  owner,  his  arms  rest 
ing  upon  the  table,  and  his  face  reclining  upon  his  arms. 
Sadly  was  he  reviewing  the  dreary  past,  since  first  among 
them  death  had  been,  bearing  away  his  wife,  the  wife  of 
his  first,  only  love.  Now,  by  her  grave  there  was  an 
other,  on  which  the  pale  moonbeams  and  the  chill  night- 
dews  were  falling,  but  they  could  not  disturb  the  rest  of 
the  two,  who,  side  by  side,  in  the  same  coffin  lay  sleeping, 
and  for  whom  the  father's  tears  were  falling  fast,  and  the 
father's  heart  was  bleeding. 

"  Desolate,  desolate — all  is  desolate,"  said  the  stricken 
man.  "Would  that  I,  too,  were  asleep  with  my  lost 
ones ! " 

There  was  a  rustling  sound  near  him,  a  footfall,  and  an 
arm  was  thrown  lovingly  around  his  neck.  Margaret's 
tears  were  on  his  cheek,  and  Margaret's  voice  whispered 
hi  his  ear,  "  Dear  father,  we  must  love  each  other  better, 
now." 

Margaret  had  not  retired,  and  on  passing  through 
the  hall,  had  discovered  the  light  gleaming  through  the 
crevice  of  the  library  door.  Knowing  that  her  father 
must  be  there,  she  had  come  in  to  comfort  him.  Long 
the  father  and  child  wept  together,  and  then  Margaret, 


88  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

drying  her  tears,  said,  "  It  is  right  —  all  right ;  mother 
has  two,  and  you  have  two ;  and  though  the  dead  will 
never  return  to  us,  we,  in  God's  good  time,  will  return  to 
them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  soon,  very  soon,  shall  I  go,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton, 
"  I  am  weary,  weary,  Margaret ;  my  life  is  one  scene  of 
bitterness.  Oh,  why,  why  was  I  left  to  do  it  ?  " 

Margaret  knew  well  to  what  he  referred,  but  she  made 
no  answer ;  and  after  he  had  become  somewhat  composed, 
thinking  this  a  good  opportunity  for  broaching  the  r-ub- 
ject  which  had  so  troubled  Carrie's  dying  moments,  she 
drew  from  her  bosom  the  soiled  piece  of  paper,  and  pla 
cing  it  in  his  hands,  watched  him  while  he  read.  Tho 
moan  of  anguish  which  came  from  his  lips  as  he  finished, 
made  her  repent  of  her  act,  and,  springing  to  his  side,  she 
exclaimed,  "Forgive  me,  father;  I  ought  not  to  have 
done  it  now.  You  have  enough  to  bear." 

"  It  is  right,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Hamilton ;  "  for  aftei 
the  wound  had  slightly  healed,  I  might  have  wavered. 
Not  that  I  love  Walter  less;  but,  fool  that  I  am,  I 
fear  her  who  has  made  me  the  cowardly  wretch  you 
see!" 

"  Rouse  yourself,  then,"  answered- Murgaret.  "  Shake 
off  her  chain,  and  be  free." 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  said  he.  "  Bat  this  I  will.  do.  I 
will  make  another  will.  I  always  intended  to  do  so,  and 
Walter  shall  not  be  wronged."  Then  rising,  he  hurriedly 
paced  the  room,  saying,  *  Walter  shall  not  be  wronged ; 
no,  no — Walter  shall  not  be  wronged." 

After  a  time  he  resumed  his  former  seat,  and  taking  his 
daughter's  hand  in  his,  he  told  her  ®f  all  he  had  suffered, 
of  the  power  which  his  wife  held  over  him,  and  which  he 
was  too  weak  to  shake  off'.  This  last  he  did  not  say,  but 
Margaret  knew  it,  and  it  prevented  her  from  giving  him 


MARGARET  AND  HER  FATHER.  89 

other  consolation  than  that  of  assuring  him  of  her  own 
unchanged,  undying  love. 

The  morning  twilight  was  streaming  through  the  closed 
hutters  ere  the  conference  ended ;  and  then  Mr.  Hamil 
ton,  kissing  his  daughter,  dismissed  her  from  the  room 
but  as  she  was  leaving  him,  he  called  her  back,  saying, 
"  Don't  tell  Walter ;  he  would  despise  me ;  but  he  shan't 
be  wronged — no,  he  shan't  be  wronged." 

Six  weeks  from  that  night,  Margaret  stood,  with  her 
brother,  watching  her  father  as  the  light  from,  his  eyeg 
went  out,  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  ceased  forever. 
Grief  for  the  loss  of  his  children,  and  remorse  for  the 
blight  which  he  had  brought  upon  his  household,  had  un 
dermined  his  constitution,  never  strong ;  and  when  a  pre 
vailing  fever  settled  upon  him,  it  found  an  easy  prey.  In 
ten  days'  time,  Margaret  and  Walter  alone  were  left  of 
the  happy  band,  who,  two  years  before,  had  gathered 
around  the  fireside  of  the  old  homestead. 

Loudly  Mrs.  Hamilton  deplored  her  loss,  shutting  her 
self  up  in  her  room,  and  refusing  to  see  any  one,  saying 
that  she  could  not  be  comforted,  and  it  was  of  no  use  try 
ing  !  Lenora,  however,  managed  to  find  an  opportunity 
of  whispering  to  her  that  it  would  hardly  be  advisable  to 
commit  suicide,  since  she  had  got  the  homestead  left, 
and  everything  else  for  which  she  had  married  Mr.  Ham 
ilton. 

"Lenora,  how  can  you  thus  trifle  with  my  feelings? 
"  Don't  you  see  that  my  trouble  is  killing  me  ?  "  said  the 
greatly  distressed  lady. 

"  I  don't  apprehend  any  such  catastrophe  as  that,"  an 
swered  Leriora.  u,You  found  the  weeds  of  Widow  Car 
ter  easy  enough  to  wear,  and  those  of  Widow  Hamilton 
won't  hurt  you  any  worse,  I  imagine." 

"  Lenora,"  groaned  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "  may  you  never 


90  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

know  what  it  is  to  be  the  unhappy  mother  of  such  a 
child ! » 

"  Amen !  "  was  Lcnora's  fervent  response,  as  she  glided 
from  the  room. 

For  three  days  the  body  of  Mr.  Hamilton  lay  upon  the 
marble  center-table  in  the  darkened  parlor.  Up  and 
down  the  long  stair-cases,  and  through  the  silent  rooms, 
the  servants  moved  noiselessly.  Down  in  the  basement 
Aunt  Polly  forgot  her  wonted  skill  in  cooking,  and  in  a 
broken  rocking-chair  swayed  to  and  fro,  brushing  the  big 
tears  from  her  dusky  face,  and  lamenting  the  loss  of  one 
who  seemed  to  her  "just  like  a  brother,  only  a  little  nigher." 

In  the  chamber  above,  where,  six  weeks  before,  Carrie 
had  died,  sat  Margaret, —  not  weeping ;  she  could  not  do 
that; — her  grief  was  too  great,  and  the  fountain  of  her 
tears  seemed  scorched  and  dried ;  but,  with  white,  com 
pressed  lips,  and  hands  tightly  clasped,  she  thought  of 
the  past  and  of  the  cheerless  future.  Occasionally  through 
the  doorway  there  came  a  small,  dark  figure ;  a  pair  of 
slender  arms  were  thrown  around  her  neck,  and  a  voice 
murmured  in  her  ear,  "  Poor,  poor  Maggie."  The  next 
moment  the  figure  would  be  gone,  and  in  the  hall  below 
Lenora  would  be  heard  singing  snatches  of  some  song, 
either  to  provoke  her  mother,  or  to  make  the  astonished 
servants  believe  that  she  was  really  heartless  and  hard 
ened. 

What  Walter  suffered  could  not  be  expressed.  Hour 
after  hour,  from  the  sun's  rising  till  its  going  down,  he 
eat  by  his  father's  coflin,  unmindful  of  the  many  who  came 
in  to  lool:  at  the  dead,  and  then  gazing  pitifully  upon  the 
face  of  the  living,  walked  away,  whimpering  mysteriously 
of  insanity.  Near  him  Lenora  dared  not  come,  though 
throng] i  the  open  door  she  watched  him,  and  oftentimes 
he  met  the  glance  of  her  wild,  black  eyes,  fixed  upon  him 


MAEGARET  AND  HER  FATHEE.  91 

with  a  mournful  interest ;  then,  as  if  moved  by  sonic  spirit 
of  evil,  she  would  turn  away,  and  seeking  her  mother's 
room,  would  mock  at  that  lady's  grief,  advising  her  not 
to  make  too  much  of  an  effort. 

At  last  there  came  a  change.  In  the  yard  there  was 
fche  sound  of  many  feet,  and  in  the  house  the  hum  of  many 
voices,  all  low  and  subdued.  Again  in  the  village  of  Glen- 
wood  was  heard  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell ;  again  through 
the  garden  and  over  the  running  water  brook  moved  the 
long  procession  to  the  grave-yard;  and  soon  Ernest 
Hamilton  lay  quietly  sleeping  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and 
children. 

For  some  time  after  the  funeral,  nothing  was  said  con 
cerning  the  will,  and  Margaret  had  almost  forgotten  the 
existence  of  one,  when  one  day  as  she  was  passing  the 
library  door,  her  mother  appeared,  and  asked  her  to  enter. 
She  did  so,  and  found  there  her  brother,  whose  face,  be 
sides  the  marks  of  recent  sorrow  which  it  wore,  now 
seemed  anxious  and  expectant. 

"  Maggie,  dear,"  said  the  oily-tongued  woman,  "  I  have 
sent  for  you  to  hear  read  your  beloved  father's  last  will 
and  testament." 

A  deep  flush  mounted  to  Margaret's  face,  as  she  re 
peated,  somewhat  inquiringly,  "Father's  last  will  and 
testament  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  answered  her  mother,  "  his  last  will  and 
testament.  He  made  it  several  weeks  ago,  even  before 
poor  Carrie  died;  and  as  Walter  is  now  the  eldest  and 
only  son,  I  think  it  quite  proper  that  he  should  read  it." 

So  saying,  she  passed  toward  Walter  a  sealed  package, 
which  he  nervously  ^opened,  while  Margaret,  going  to  his 
Bide,  looked  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  read. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  look  of  mingled  sur 
prise,  anger,  and  mortification  which  Mrs.  Hamilton'* 


92  THE   HOMESTEAD   ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

face  assumed,  as  she  heard  the  will  which  her  husband 
had  made  four  weeks  before  his  death,  and  in  which  Wal 
ter  shared  equally  with  his  sister.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  destroy  it ;  and  springing  forward,  she  attempted  to 
snatch  it  from  Walter's  hand,  but  was  prevented  by  Mar- 
garet,  who  caught  her  arm  and  forcibly  held  her  back. 

Angrily  confronting  her  step-daughter,  Mrs.  Hamilton 
demanded,  "  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  to  which  Mag  re 
plied,  "  It  means,  madam,  that  for  once  you  are  foiled. 
You  coaxed  my  father  into  making  a  will,  the  thought  of 
which  ought  to  make  you  blush.  Carrie  overheard  you 
telling  Lenora,  and  when  she  found  that  she  must  die,  she 
wrote  it  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  consigned  it  to  Willie's 
care ! " 

Several  times  Mrs.  Hamilton  essayed  to  speak,  but  the 
words  died  away  in  her  throat,  until,  at  last,  summoning 
all  her  boldness,  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  But  the 
homestead  is  mine  —  mine  forever,  and  we'll  see  how  de 
lightful  I  can  make  your  home  !  " 

"  I'll  save  you  that  trouble,  madam,"  said  Walter,  ri 
sing  and  advancing  toward  the  door.  "  Neither  my  sis 
ter  nor  myself  will  remain  beneath  the  same  roof  which 
shelters  you.  To-morrow  we  leave,  knowing  well  that 
vengeance  belongeth  to  One  higher  than  we." 

All  the  remainder  of  that  day  Walter  and  Margaret 
spent  in  devising  some  plan  for  the  future,  deciding  at  last 
that  Margaret  should,  on  the  morrow,  go  for  a  tune  to 
Mrs.  Kirby's,  while  Walter  returned  to  the  city.  The 
next  morning,  however,  Walter  did  not  appear  in  the; 
breakfast  parlor,  and  when  Margaret,  alarmed  at  hi,«  ab 
sence,  repaired  to  his  room,  she  fougd  him  unable  to  rise. 
The  fever  with  which  his  father  had  died,  and  which  was 
still  prevailing  in  the  village,  had  fastened  upon  him,  and 
for  many  days  was  his  life  despaired  of.  The  ablest  phy 


MAKGARET  AND  HER  FATHER.  93 

sicians  were  called,  but  few  of  them  gave  any  hope  to  the 
pale,  weeping  sister,  who,  with  untiring  love,  kept  her 
vigils  by  her  brother's  bedside. 

When  he  was  iirst  taken  ill,  he  had  manifested  great 
uneasiness  at  his  step-mother's  presence,  and  when  at  last 
he  became  delirious,  he  no  longer  concealed  his  feelings, 
and  if  she  entered  the  room,  he  would  shriek,  "  Take  her 
away  from  me !  Take  her  away !  Chain  her  in  the  cel 
lar  ;  —  anywhere  out  of  my  sight." 

Again  he  would  speak  of  Kate,  and  entreat  .that  she 
might  come  to  him.  "  I  have  nothing  left  but  her  and 
Margaret,"  he  would  say ;  "  and  why  does  she  stay  away  ?  " 
*  Three  different  times  had  Margaret  sent  to  her  young 
friend,  urging  her  to  come,  and  still  she  tarried,  while 
Margaret  marveled  greatly  at  the  delay.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  girl  whom  she  had  told  to  go,  had  received 
different  directions  from  Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  that  each 
day  beneath  her  mother's  roof  Kate  Kirby  wept  and 
prayed  that  Walter  might  not  die. 

One  night  he  seemed  to  be  dying,  and  gathered  in  the 
room  were  many  sympathizing  friends  and  neighbors. 
Without,  'twas  pitchy  dark.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents, 
and  the  wind,  which  had  increased  in  violence  since  the 
setting  of  the  sun,  howled  mournfully  about  the  windows, 
as  if  waiting  to  bear  the  soul  company  in  its  upward 
flight.  Many  times  had  Walter  attempted  to  speak.  At 
last  he  succeeded,  and  the  word  which  fell  from  his  lips, 
was  "  Kate !  " 

Lenora,  who  had  that  day  accidentally  learned  of  her 
mother's  commands  with  regard  to  Miss  Kirby,  now 
glided  noiselessly  from  the  room,  and  in  a*  moment  was 
alone  in  the  fearful  storm,  which  she  did  not  heed.  Lightly 
bounding  over  the  swollen  brook,  she  ran  on  until  the 
mill-pond  cottage  was  reached.  It  was  midnight,  and  its 


94  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

inmates  were  asleep,  but  they  awoke  at  the  sound  of  Le» 
nora's  voice. 

"Walter  is  dying,"  said  she  to  Kate,  "and  would  see 
you  once  more.  Come  quickly." 

Hastily  dressing  herself,  Kate  went  forth  with  the 
strange  girl,  who  spoke  not  a  word  until  Walter's  room 
was  reached.  Feebly  the  sick  man  wound  his  arms  around 
Kate's  neck,  exclaiming,  "  My  own,  my  beautiful  Kate, 
I  knew  you  would  come.  I  am  better  now, —  I  shall  live  ! " 
and  as  if  there  was  indeed  something  life-giving  in  her 
very  presence  and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Walter  from 
that  hour  grew  better ;  and  in  three  week's  time  he,  to 
gether  with  Margaret,  left  his  childhood's  home,  onco, 
so  dear,  but  now  darkened  by  the  presence  of  her  who 
watched  their  departure  with  joy,  exulting  in  the  thought 
that  she  was  mistress  of  all  she  surveyed. 

Walter,  who  was  studying  law  in  the  city  about  twenty 
miles  distant,  resolved  to  return  thither  immediately,  and 
after  some  consultation  with  his  sister  it  was  determined 
that  both  she  and  Kate  should  accompany  him.  Accord 
ingly,  a  few  mornings  after  they  left  the  homestead,  there 
was  a  quiet  bridal  at  the  mill-pond  cottage ;  after  which, 
Walter  Hamilton  bore  away  to  his  city  home  his  sister 
and  his  bride,  the  beautiful  Kate. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"CARRYING  OUT  DEAR  MR.  HAMILTON'S  PLANS." 

ONE  morning  about  ten  days  after  the  departure  of 
Waiter,  the  good  people  of  Glenwood  were  greatly  sur 
prised  at  the  unusual  confusion  which  seemed  to  pervade 


OUT  DEAR  ME.  HAMILTON'S  PLANS.'"  95 

the  homestead.  The  blinds  were  taken  off,  windows  taken 
out,  carpets  taken  up,  and  where  so  lately  physicians, 
clergymen  and  death  had  officiated,  were  now  seen  car 
penters,  masons  and  other  workmen.  Many  were  the 
surmises  as  to  the  cause  of  all  this ;  and  one  old  lady,  more 
curious  than  the  rest,  determined  upon  a  friendly  call,  to 
ascertain,  if  possible,  what  was  going  on. 

She  found  Mrs.  Hamilton  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up 
and  her  hair  tucked  under  a  black  cap,  consulting  with  s 
carpenter  about  enlarging  her  bedroom  and  adding  to  it 
a  bathing  room.  Being  received  but  coldly  by  the  mis 
tress  of  the  house,  she  descended  to  the  basement,  where 
she  was  told  by  Aunt  Polly  that  "  the  blinds  were  going 
to  be  repainted,  an  addition  built,  the  house  turned  wrong 
side  out,  and  Cain  raised  generally." 

"  It's  a  burning  shame,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  warmed  up 
by  her  subject  and  the  hot  oven  into  which  she  was  thrust 
ing  loaves  of  bread  and  pies.  "  It's  a  burning  shame, —  a 
tearin'  down  and  a  goin'  on  this  way,  and  marster  not 
cold  in  his  grave.  Miss  Lenora,  with  all  her  badness,  says 
it's  disgraceful,  but  he  might  ha'  knoAv'd  it.  I  did.  I 
know'd  it  the  fust  time  she  came  here  a  nussin'.  I  don't 
see  what  got  into  him  to  have  her.  Polly  Pepper,  with 
out  any  larnin',  never  would  ha'  done  such  a  thing,"  con 
tinued  she,  as  the  door  closed  upon  her  visitor,  who  was 
anxious  to  carry  the  gossip  back  to  the  village. 

It  was  even  as  Aunt  Polly  had  said.  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who 
possessed,  a  strong  propensity  for  pulling  down  and  build 
ing  up,  and  who  would  have  made  an  excellent  carpenter, 
had  long  had  an  earnest  desire  for  improving  the  home 
stead  ;  and  now  that  there  was  no  one  to  prevent  her,  sho 
went  to  work  with,  a  right  good  will,  saying  to  Lenora, 
who  remonstrated  with  her  upon  the  impropriety  of  her 
conduct,  that  "  she  was  merely  carrying  out  dear  Mr 


96  THE   HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

Hamilton's  plans,"  who  had  proposed  making  these  chan 
ges  before  his  death. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Hamilton !  "  repeated  Lenora,  "  very  dear 
has  he  become  to  you,  all  at  once.  I  think  if  you  had  aL 
ways  manifested  a  little  more  affection  for  him  and  his, 
they  might  not  have  been  where  they  now  are." 

"  Seems  to  me  you  take  a  different  text  from  what  you 
did  some  months  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton ;  "  but  per 
haps  you  don't  remember  the  tune  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it  well,"  answered  Lenora,  "  and  quite 
likely,  with  your  training,  I  should  do  the  same  again. 
We  were  poor,  and  I  wished  for  a  more  elegant  home.  I 
fancied  that  Margaret  Hamilton  was  proud  and  had  slight 
ed  me,  and  I  longed  for  revenge ;  but  when  I  knew  her, 
I  liked  her  better,  and  when  I  saw  that  she  was  not  to  be 
trampled  down  by  you  or  me,  my  hatred  of  her  turned  to 
admiration.  The  silly  man,  who  has  paid  the  penalty  of 
his  weakness,!  always  despised;  but  when  I  saw  how  fast 
the  gray  hairs  thickened  on  his  head,  and  how  care-worn 
and  bowed  down  he  grew,  I  pitied  him,  for  I  knew  that 
his  heart  was  breaking.  Willie  I  truly,  unselfishly  loved ; 
and  I  am  charitable  enough  to  think  that  even  you  loved 
him,  but  it  was  through  your  neglect  that  he  died,  and 
for  his  death  you  will  answer.  Carrie  was  gentle  and 
trusting,  but  weak,  like  her  father.  I  do  not  think  you 
killed  her,  for  she  was  dying  when  we  came  here,  but  you 
put  the  crowning  act  of  wickedness  to  your  life,  when  you 
compelled  a  man,  shattered  in  body  and  intellect,  -to  write 
a  will  which  disinherited  his  only  son ;  but  on  that  point 
you  are  baffled.  To  be  sure,  you've  got  the  homestead, 
and  for  decency's  sake  I  think  I'd  wait  awhile  longer,  ere 
I  commenced  tearing  down  and  building  up." 

Lenora's  words  had  no  effect,  whatever,  upon  her  mother 
Ivho  still  kept  on  with  her  plans,  treating  with  silent  con- 


'*  CARRYING  OUT  DEAR  ME.  HAMILTON'S  PLANS."         91} 

tempt  the  remarks  of  the  neighbors,  or  wishing,  perhaps, 
that  they  would  attend  to  their  own  business,  just  as  she 
was  attending  to  hers  !  Day  after  day  the  work  went  on. 
Scaffoldings  were  raised — paper  and  plastering  torn  off — 
boards  were  seasoning  in  the  sun  —  shingles  lying  upon 
the  ground  —  ladders  raised  against  the  wall ;  and  all  this 
while  the  two  new  graves  showed  not  a  single  blade  of 
grass,  and  the  earth  upon  them  looked  black  and  fresh  as 
it  did  when  first  it  was  placed  there. 

When,  at  last,  the  blinds  were  hung,  the  house  cleaned, 
and  the  carpets  nailed  down,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  had  de 
signed  doing  it  all  the  time,  called  together  the  ^servants, 
whom  she  had  always  disliked  on  account  of  their  prefer 
ence  for  Margaret,  and  told  them  to  look  for  new  places, 
as  their  services  were  no  longer  needed  there. 

"  You  can  make  out  your  bills,"  said  she,  at  the  same 
time  intimating  that  they  hadn't  one  of  them  more  than 
earned  their  board,  if  indeed  they  had  that !  Polly  Pep 
per  wasn't  of  a  material  to  stand  coolly  by  and  hear  such 
language  from  one  whom  she  considered  far  beneath  her. 
"  Hadn't  she  as  good  a  right  there  as  anybody  ?  Yes,  in 
deed,  she  had  !  Wasn't  she  there  a  full  thirty  year  before 
any  of  your  low-lived  trash  came  round  a  nussin  ?  " 

"  Polly,"  interposed  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "  leave  the  roomt 
instantly,  you  ungrateful  thing' !  " 

"  Ungrateful  for  what  ?  "  returned  old  Polly.  "  Have  n't 
I  worked  and  slaved  like  an  old  nigger,  as  I  am  ?  and  now 
you  call  rae  ungrateful,  and  say  I  hain't  half  arnt  my  bread. 
I'll  sue  you  for  slander,  yes  I  will ;"  and  the  enraged  Polly 
left  the  room,  muttering  to  herself,  "half  arnt  my  board! 
Indeed  !  I'll  bet  I've  made  a  hundred  thousan'  pies,  to 
say  nothin'  of  the  puddings,  ./not  arn  my  board !  " 

When  once  again  safe  in  what  for  so  many  years  had 
been  her  own  peculiar  province,  she  sat  down  to  meditate, 
E  7 


98  THE   HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  I'd  as  good,  go  without  any  fuss,"  thought  she,  "  but 
my  curse  on  the  madam  who  sends  me  away  !  " 

In  the  midst  of  her  reverie,  Lenora  entered  the  kitchen, 
and  to  her  the  old  lady  detailed  her  grievances,  ending 
with,  '"Pears  like  she  don't  know  nothin'  at  all  about 
etiquette,  nor  nothin'  else." 

"  Etiquette !  "  repeated  Lenora.  "  You  are  mistaken, 
Polly ;  mother  would  sit  on  a  point  of  etiquette  till  she 
wore  the  back  breadth  of  her  dress  out.  But  it  isn't  that 
which  she  lacks  —  it's  decency.  But,  Polly,"  said  she, 
changing  the  subject,  "where  do  you  intend  to  go,  and 
how  ?  " 

"  To  my  brother  Sam's,"  said  Polly.  "  He  lives  three 
miles  in  the  country,  and  I've  sent  Robin  to  the  village  foi 
a  horse  and  wagon  to  carry  my  things." 

Here  Mrs.  Hamilton  entered  the  kitchen,  followed  by  a 
strapping  Irish  girl,  nearly  six  feet  in  height.  Her  hair, 
flaming  red,  was  twisted  round  a  huge  back  comb ;  her 
faded  calico  dress  came  far  above  her  ancles ;  her  brawny 
arms  were  folded  one  over  the  other ;  and  there  was  in 
her  appearance  something  altogether  disagreeable  and  de 
fiant.  Mrs.  Hamilton  introduced  her  as  Ruth,  her  new 
cook,  saying  she  hoped  she  would  know  enough  to  keep 
her  place  better  than  her  predecessor  had  done. 

Aunt  Polly  surveyed  her  rival  from  head  to  foot,  and 
then  glancing  aside  to  Lenora,  muttered,  "  Low-lived,  de 
pend  on't." 

Robin  now  drove  up  with  the  wagon,  and  Mrs.  Ham 
ilton  and  'Lenora  left  the  room,  while  Polly  went  to  pro- 
pare  herself  for  her  ride.  Her  sleeping  apartment  was  in 
the  basement  and  communicated  with  the  kitchen.  Thia 
wa»  observed  by  the  new  cook,  who  had  a  strong  dislike 
of  negroes,  and  who  feared  that  she  might  be  expected  to 
occupy  the  same  bed. 


"  CARRYING  OUT  DEAK  ME.  HAMILTON'S  PLANS."         69 

"  An'  faith,"  said  she,  "  is  it  where  the  like  of  ye  hnvo 
Durrowed  that  I  am  to  turn  in  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  no  such  low-flung  stuff,"  answered 
Polly,  "  but  if  you  mean  are  you  to  have  this  bedroom,  I 
suppose  you  are." 

Here  Polly  had  occasion  to  go  up  stairs  for  something, 
and  on  her  return,  she  found  that  Ruth,  during  her  ab 
sence,  had  set  fire  to  a  large  linen  rag,  which  she  held  on 
a  shovel  and  was  carrying  about  the  bedroom,  as  if  to 
purify  it  from  every  atom  of  negro  atmosphere  which 
might  remain.  Polly  was  quick-wittted,  and  instantly 
comprehending  the  truth,  she  struck  the  shovel  from  the 
hands  of  Ruth,  exclaiming,  "  You  spalpeen,  is  it  because 
my  skin  ain't  a  dingy  yaller  and  all  freckled  like  yourn  ? 
Lo"rd,  look  at  your  carrot-topped  cocoanut,  and  then  tell 
ine  if  wool  ain't  a  heap  the  most  genteel." 

In  a  moment  a  portion  of  the  boasted  wool  was  lying 
on  the  floor,  or  being  shaken  from  the  thick,  red  fingers 
of  the  cook,  while  Irish  blood  was  flowing  freely  from 
the  nose,  which  Polly,  in  her  vengeful  wrath,  had  wrung. 
Further  hostilities  were  prevented  by  Robin,  who  screamed 
that  he  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  and  shaking  her  fist 
fiercely  at  the  red-head,  Polly  departed. 

That  day  Lucy  and  Rachel  also  left,  and  their  placea 
were  supplied  by  two  raw  hands,  one  of  whom,  before  the 
close  of  the  second  day,  tumbled  up  stairs  with  the  large 
Boup  tureen,  breaking  it  in  fragments  and  scalding  the  foot 
of  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who  was  in  the  rear,  and  who,  having 
waited  an  hour  for  dinner,  had  descended  to  the  kitchen 
to  know  why  it  was  not  forthcoming,  saying  that  Polly 
had  never  been  so  behind  the*  time. 

The  other  one,  on  being  asked  if  she  understood  cham 
ber  work,  had  replied,  "  Indade,  and  it's  been  my  busi 
ness  all  my  life."  She  was  accordingly  sent  to  make  the 


100  THE    HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

beds  and  empty  tlie  slop.  Thinking  it  an  easy  way  to  dis 
pose  of  the  latter,  she  had  thrown  it  from  the  window, 
deluging  the  head  and  shoulders  of  her  mistress,  who  was 
bending  down  to  examine  a  rose-bush  which  had  been  re 
cently  set  out.  Lenora  was  in  ecstasies,  and  when  at 
noon  her  mother  received  a  sprinkling  of  red-hot  soup,  she 
gravely  asked  her  "  which  she  relished  most,  cold  or  warm 
baths ! " 


CHAPTER  xni. 

BET K I BUT I ON. 

Two  years  have  passscd  away,  and  again  we  open  the 
scene  at  the  homestead,  which  had  not  proved  an  alto 
gether  pleasant  home  to  Mrs.  Hamilton.  There  was 
around  her  everything  to  make  her  happy,  but  she  waa 
far  from  being  so.  One  by  one  her  servants,  with  whom 
she  was  very  unpopular,  had  left  her,  until  there  now  re 
mained  but  one.  The  villagers,  too,  shunned  her,  and  she 
was  wholly  dependent  for  society  upon  Lenora,  who,  as 
usual,  provoked  and  tormented  her. 

One  day,  Hester,  the  servant,  came  up  from  the  base 
ment,  saying  there  was  a  poor  old  man  below,  who  asked 
for  money. 

"Send  him  away;  I've  nothing  for  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  whose  avaricious  hand,  larger  far  than  her 
heart,  grasped  at  and  retained  everything. 

"  But,  if  you  please,  ma'am,  he  seems  very  poor,"  said 
Hester. 

"  Let  him  go  to  work,  then.  'Twon't  hurt  him  more 
than  't  will  me,"  was  the  reply. 


EETEIBUTION.  101 

Lenora,  whose  eyes  and  ears  were  always  open,  no 
sooner  heard  that  there  was  a  beggar  in  the  kitchen,  than 
si ic  ran  down  to  see  him.  He  was  a  miserable  looking 
object,  and  still  there  was  something  in  his  appearance 
which  denoted  him  to  be  above  the  common  order  of  beg 
gars.  His  eyes  were  large  and  intensely  black,  and  hia 
hair,  short,  thick,  and  curly,  reminded  Lenora  of  her  own, 
The  moment  she  appeared,  a  peculiar  expression  passed 
for  q  moment  over  his  face,  and  he  half  started  np ;  then 
resuming  his  seat,  he  fixed  his  glittering  eyes  upon  the 
young  lady,  and  seemed  watching  her  closely, 

At  last  she  began  questioning  him,  but  his  answers  were 
so  unsatisfactory  that  she  gave  it  up,  and,  thinking  it  the 
easiest  way  to  be  rid  of  him,  she  took  from  her  pooket  a 
shilling  and  handed  it  to  him,  saying,  "  It's  all  I  can  give 
you,  unless  it  is  a  dinner.  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

Hester,  who  had  returned  to  the  kitchen,  was  busy  in 
a  distant  part  of  the  room,  and  she  did  not  notice  the 
paleness  which  overspread  Lenora's  face,  at  the  words 
which  the  beggar  uttered,  when  she  presented  the  money 
to  him.  She  caught,  however,  the  low  murmur  of  their 
voices,  as  they  spoke  together  for  a  moment,  and  as  Le 
nora  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  she  distinctly  heard 
the  words,  "  In  the  garden." 

"  And  may  be  that's  some  of  your  kin ;  you  look  like 
him,"  said  she  to  Lenora,  after  the  stranger  was  gone. 

"  That's  my  business,  not  yours,"  answered  Lenora,  as 
she  left  the  kitchen  and  repaired  to  her  mother's  room. 

"  Lenora,  what  ails  you  ?  "  said  Mrs  Hamilton  to  her 
daughter  at  the  tea-table,  that  night,  when,  after  putting 
v$alt  in  one  cup  of  tea,  and  upsetting  a  second,  she  com 
menced  spreading  her  biscuit  with  cheese  instead  of  but 
ter.  "  What  ails  you  ?  What  are  you  thinking  about  ? 


102  THE   HOMESTEAD    ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

You  don't  seem  to  know  any  more  what  you  arc  doing, 
than  the  dead." 

Lenora  made  no  direct  reply  to  this,  but  soon  after  she 
said,  "  Mother,  how  long  has  father  been  dead, — my  own 
father  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Two  or  three  years,  I  don't  exactly  know  which," 
returned  her  mother,  and  Lenora  continued :  "  How  did 
he  look  ?  I  hardly  remember  him." 

"  You  have  asked  me  that  fifty  times,"  answered  her 
mother,  "  and  fifty  times  I  have  told  you  that  he  looked 
like  you,  only  worse,  if  possible." 

"  Let  me  see,  where  did  you  say  he  died  ? "  said 
Lenora. 

"  In  New  Orleans,  with  yellow  fever,  or  black  measles, 
or  small  pox,  or  something,"  Mrs.  Hamilton  replied;  "but, 
mercy's  sake !  can't  you  choose  a  better  subject  to  talk 
about  ?  What  made  you  think  of  him  ?  He's  been  haunt 
ing  ine  all  day,  and  I  feel  kind  of  nervous  and  want  to 
look  over  my  shoulder  whenever  I  am  alone." 

Lenora  made  no  further  remark  until  after  tea,  when 
she  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  the  village. 

"  Come  back  early,  for  I  don't  feel  like  staying  alone," 
said  her  mother. 

The  sun  had  set  when  Lenora  left  the  village,  and  by 
the  time  she  reached  home,  it  was  wholly  dark.  As  she 
entered  the  garden,  the  outline  of  a  figure,  sitting  on  a 
bench  at  its  farther  extremity,  made  her  stop  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  thinking  to  herself,  "  I  expected  it,  and  why 
should  I  be  afraid?"  she  walked  on  fearlessly,  until  the 
person,  roused  by  the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  started  up, 
and  turning  toward  her,  said,  half  aloud,  "  Lenora,  is  it 
you  ?  " 

Quickly  she  sprang  forward,  and  soon  one  hand  of  the 
beggar  was  clasped  in  hers,  while  the  other  rested  upon 


RETRIBUTION.  10£ 

her  head,  as  he  said,  "  Lenora,  my  child,  my  daughter, 


" 


me 

"  Hate  you,  father  ?  "  she  answered,  "  never,  never." 

"But,"  he  continued,  "has  not  she,  —  my,  -  no,  not 
my  wife,  —  thank  heaven  not  my  wife  now,  —  but  your 
mother,  has  not  she  taught  you  to  despise  and  hate  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Lenora,  bitterly.  "  She  has  taught  rnc 
enough  of  evil,  but  my  memories  of  you  were  too  sweet, 
too  pleasant,  for  me  to  despise  you,  though  I  do  not  think 
you  always  did  right,  more  than  mother." 

The  stranger  groaned,  and  murmured,  "  It's  true,  all 
true  ;  "  while  Lenora  continued  :  "  But  where  have  you 
been  all  these  years,  and  how  came  we  to  hear  of  your 
death?" 

"  I  have  been  in  St.  Louis  most  of  the  tune,  and  the 
report  of  my  death  resulted  from  the  fact  that  a  man  bear 
ing  my  name,  afcid  who  was  also  from  Connecticut,  died 
of  yellow  fever  in  New  Orleans  about  two  years  and  a 
half  ago.  A  friend  of  mine,  observing  a  notice  of  his 
death,  and  supposing  it  to  refer  to  me,  forwarded  the  pa 
per  to  your  mother,  who,  though  then  free  from  me,  un 
doubtedly  felt  glad,  for  she  never  loved  me,  but  married 
me  because  she  thought  I  had  money." 

"  But  how  have  you  lived  ?  "  asked  Lenora. 

"Lived!"  he  repeated,  "I  have  not  lived.  I  have 
merely  existed.  Gambling  and  drinking,  drinking  and 
gambling,  have  been  the  business  of  my  life,  and  have  re 
duced  me  to  the  miserable  wretch  whom  you  see." 

"  Oh,  father,  father,"  cried  Lenora,  "  reform.  It  is  not 
too  late,  and  you  can  yet  be  saved.  Do  it  for  my  sake, 
for,  in  spijte  of  all  your  faults,  I  love  you,  and  you  are  my 
father." 

The  first  words  of  affection  which  had  greeted  his  ear 
for  many  long  years  made  the  wretched  man  weep,  an 


104  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

lie  answered,  "Lenora,  I  have  sworn  to  reform,  and  I 
will  keep  my  vow.  During  one  of  my  drunken  revels  in 
St.  Louis,  a  dream  of  home  came  over  me,  and  when  I 
became  sober,  I  started  for  Connecticut.  There  I  heard 
where  and  what  your  mother  was.  I  had  no  wish  ever 
to  meet  her  again,  for  though  I  greatly  erred  in  my  con 
duct  toward  her,  I  think  she  was  always  the  most  to 
blame.  You  I  remembered  with  love,  and  I  longed  to 
sec  you  once  more,  to  hear  again  the  word  'father,1  and 
know  that  I  was  not  forgotten.  I  came  as  far  as  the  city, 
and  there  fell  into  temptation.  For  the  last  two  months 
I  hav<3  been  there,  gambling  and  drinking,  until  I  lost  all, 
even  the  clothes  which  I  wore,  and  was  compelled  to  as 
sume  these  rags.  I  am  now  without  home  or  money,  Mid 
have  no  place  to  lay  my  head." 

"I  can  give  you  money,"  said  Lcnora.  "Meet  me 
here  to-morrow  night,  and  you  shall  have  all  you  want. 
But  what  do  you  purpose  doing  ?  Where  will  you 
stay  ?  " 

"  In  the  village,  for  the  sake  of  being  near  you,"  said 
he,  at  the  same  time  bidding  his  daughter  return  to  the 
house,  as  the  night  air  was  damp  and  chilly. 

Within  a  week  from  that  time,  a  middle-aged  man, 
calling  himself  John  Robinson,  appeared  in  the  village, 
hiring  himself  out  as  a  porter  at  one  of  the  hotels.  There 
was  a  very  striking  resemblance  between  him  and  Lenora 
Carter,  which  was  noticed  by  the  villagers,  and  men 
tioned  to  Mrs.  Hamilton,  who,  however,  could  never 
obtain  a  full  view  of  the  stranger's  face,  for  without 
any  apparent  design,  he  always  avoided  meeting  her 
He  had  not  been  long  in  town,  before  it  was  whispered 
about  that  between  him  and  Lenora  Carter  a  strange 
intimacy,  existed,  and  rumors  soon  readied  Mrs.  Ham 
ilton  that  her  daughter  was  in  the  habit  of  frequently 


KETKIBUTIOtf.  105 

stealing  out,  after  sunset,  to  meet  the  old  porter,  and  that 
once,  when  watched,  she  had  been  seen  to  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  Highly  indignant,  Mrs.  Hamilton  ques 
tioned  Lenora  on  the  subject,  and  was  astonished  beyond 
measure  when  she  replied,  "  It  is  all  true.  I  have  met 
Mr.  Robinson  often,  and  I  have  put  my  arms  around  big 
neck,  and  shall  probably  do  it  again." 

"Oh,  my  child,  my  child,"  groaned  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
really  distressed  at  her  daughter's  conduct.  "  How  can 
you  do  so  ?  You  will  bring  my  gray  hairs  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave." 

<;  Not  if  you  pull  out  as  man}  of  them  as  you  ij^ow  do, 
and  use  Twiggs'  Preparation  besides,"  said  Lenora. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  did  not  answer,  but  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  wept,  really  wept,  thinking  for  the  first 
time,  perhaps,  that  as  she  had  sowed  so  wTas  she  reaping. 
For  some  time  past,  her  health  had  been  failing,  and  as 
the  summer  days  grew  warmer  and  more  oppressive,  she 
felt  a  degree  of  lassitude  and  physical  weakness  which  she 
had  never  before  experienced ;  and  one  day  unable 
longer  to  sit  up,  she  took  her  bed,  where  she  lay  for  many 
days. 

>low  that  her  mother  was  really  sick,  Lenora  seemed 
suddenly  changed,  and  with  unwearied  care  watched  over 
her  as  kindly  and  faithfully  as  if  no  words,  save  those  of 
aifection,  had  ever  passed  between  them.  Warmer  and 
more  sultry  grew  the  days,  and  more  fiercely  raged  the 
fever  in  Mrs.  Hamilton's  veins,  until  at  last  the  crisis  was 
reached  and  passed,  and  she  was  in  a  fair  way  for  recov- 
ry,  when  she  was  attacked  by  chills,  which  again  re 
duced  her  to  a  state  of  helplessness.  One  day,  about  this 
time,  a  ragged  little  boy,  whose  business  seemed  to  be 
lounging  around  the  hotel,  brought  to  Lenora  a  soiled 
and  crumplec(jk>te,  on  which  was  traced  with  an  unsteady 
E* 


10G  THE  FOAfESTEAD  OX  THE   HILLSIDE. 

hand,  "Dear  Lenora,  I  am  sick,  all  alone  in  the  little  at 
tic  ;  come  to  me,  quick ;  •  come." 

Lenora  was  in  a  state  of  great  perplexity.  Her  mother 
when  awake,  needed  all  her  care ;  and  as  she  seldom  slept 
during  the  day,  there  seemed  but  little  chance  of  getting 
away.  The  night  before,  however,  she  had  been  unu 
sually  restless  and  wakeful,  and  about  noon  she  seemed 
drowsy,  and  finally  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

"  Now  is  my  time,"  thought  Lenora ;  and  calling  Hes- 
fcer,  she  bade  her  watch  by  her  mother  until  she  returned, 
saying,  "  If  she  wakes,  tell  her  I  have  gone  to  the  village, 
and  wj)l  soon  be  back." 

Hester  promised  compliance,  and  was  for  a  time  faith 
ful  to  her  trust ;  but  suddenly  recollecting  something 
which  she  wished  to  tell  the  girl  who  lived  at  the  next 
neighbor's,  she  stole  away,  leaving  her  mistress  alone. 
For  five  minutes  Mrs.  Hamilton  slept  on,  and  then  with  a 
start  awoke  from  a  troubled  dream,  in  which  she  had 
seemed  dying  of  thirst,  while  little  Willie,  standing  by  a 
hogshead  of  water,  refused  her  a  drop.  A  part  of  her 
dream  was  true,  for  she  was  suffering  from  the  most  in 
tolerable  thirst,  and  called  loudly  for  Lenora;  but  Le 
nora  was  not  there.  Hester  next  was  called,  but  she,  too, 
was  gone.  Then,  seizing  the  bell  which  stood  upon  the 
table,  she  rung  it  with  all  her  force,  and  still  there  came 
i?o  one  to  her  relief. 

Again  Willie  stood  by  her,  offering  her  a  goblet  over 
flowing  with  water ;  but  when  she  attempted  to  take  it, 
Willie  changed  into  Lenora,  who  laughed  mockingly  at 
her  distress,  telling  her  there  was  water  in  the  well  and 
ice  on  the  curb-stone.  Once  more  the  phantom  faded 
away,  and  the  old  porter  was  there,  wading  through  a 
limpid  stream  and  offering  her  to  drink  a^cup  of  molteis 
lead. 


RETRIBUTION.  107 

"  Merciful  heaven  !  "  shrieked  the  sick  woman,  as  she 
writhed  from  side  to  side  on  her  bed,  which  seemed 
changed  to  burning  coals ;  "  will  no  one  bring  me  water, 
water,  water ! " 

An  interval  of  calmness  succeeded,  during  which  she 
revolved  in  her  mind  the  possibility  of  going  herself  to 
the  kitchen,  where  she  knew  the  water-pail  was  standing. 
ISTo  sooner  had  she  decided  upon  this,  than  the  room  ap 
peared  full  of  little  demons,  who  laughed,  and  chattered, 
and  shouted  in  her  ears,  "  Go — do  it !  Willie  did,  when 
the  night  was  dark  and  chilly ;  but  now  it  is  warm — nice 
and  warm — try  it,  do  !  " 

Tremblingly  Mrs.  Hamilton  stepped  upon  the  floor, 
and  finding  herself  too  weak  to  walk,  crouched  down, 
and  crept  slowly  down  the  stairs  to  the  kitchen  door, 
«vhere  she  stopped  to  rest.  Across  the  room  by  the  win- 
iow  stood  the  pail,  and  as  her  eye  fell  upon  it,  the  mirth 
of  the  little  winged  demons  appeared,  in  her  disordered 
fancy,  to  increase ;  and  when  the  spot  was  reached,  the 
tumbler  seized  and  thrust  into  the  pail,  they  darted  hither 
and  thither,  shouting  gleefully,  "  Lower,  lower  down ; 
just  as  Willie  did.  You'll  find  it ;  oh,  you'll  find  it !  » 

With  a  bitter  cry,  Mrs.  Hamilton  dashed  the  tumbler 
upon  the  floor,  for  the  bucket  was  empty ! 

"  Willie,  Willie,  you  are  avenged,"  she  said ;  but  the 
goblins  answered,  "  Not  yet ;  no,  not  yet." 

There  was  no  pump  in  the  well,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton 
knew  she  had  not  strength  to  raise  the  bucket  by  means 
of  the  windlass.  Her  exertions  had  increased  her  thirst 
tenfold,  and  now,  for  one  cup  of  cooling  water  she  would 
have  given  all  her  possessions.  Across  the  yard,  at  the 
distance  of  twenty  rods,  there  was  a  gushing  spring,  and 
thither  in  her  cfespair  she  determined  to  go.  According- 
>y,  she  went  fo^li  into  the  fierce  noontide  blaze,  and,  wit!' 


108  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

almost  superhuman  efforts,  crawled  to  the  jlace.  But 
what !  was  it  a  film  upon  her  eyes  ?  Had  blindness  como 
upon  her,  or  was  th?  spring  really  dried  up  by  the  fervid 
summer  heat? 

"Willie's  avenged!  Willie's  avenged!"  yelled  the. 
imps,  as  the  wretched  woman  fainted  and  fell  backward 
upon  the  bank,  where  she  lay  with  her  white,  thin  faco 
upturned,  and  blistering  beneath  the  August  sun ! 


Along  the  dusty  highway  came  a  handsome  traveling 
carriage,  in  which,  besides  the  driver,  were  seated  two 
individuals,  the  one  a  young  and  elegantly  dressed  lady, 
and  the  other  a  gentleman,  who  appeared  to  be  on  the 
most  intimate  terms  with  his  companion ;  for  whenever 
he  would  direct  her  attention  to  any  passing  object,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  hers,  frequently  retaining  it,  and  calling 
her  "Maggie." 

The  carriage  was  nearly  opposite  the  homestead,  when 
the  lady  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Richard,  I  must  stop  at  my  old 
home,  once  more.  Only  see  how  beautiful  it  is  looking ! " 

In  a  moment  the  carriage  was  standing  before  the  gate, 
and  the  gentleman,  who  was  Margaret  Hamilton's  hus 
band — a  Mr.  Elwyn,  from  the  city  —  assisted  his  young 
wife  to  alight,  and  then  followed  her  to  the  house.  ~No 
answer  was  given  to  their  loud  ring,  and  as  the  doors  and 
windows  were  all  open,  Margaret  proposed  that  they 
should  enter.  They  did  so ;  and,  going  first  into  Mrs. 
Hamilton's  sick-room,  the  sight  of  the  little  table  full  of 
?ials,  and  the  tumbled,  empty  bed,  excited  their  wonder 
and  curiosity,  and  induced  them  to  go  on.  At  last,  de- 
scending  to  the  kitchen,  they  saw  the  fragments  of  the 
tumbler  lying  upon  the  floor. 


RETRIBUTION.  109 

"  Strange,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Margaret  to  her  liusband,  who 
was  standing  in  the  outer  door,  and  who  had  at  that  mo 
merit  discovered  Mrs.  Hamilton  lying  near  the  spring. 

Instantly  they  were  at  her  side,  and  Margaret  involun 
tarily  shuddered  as  she  recognized  her  step-mother,  and 
guessed  why  she  was  there.  Taking  her  in  his  arms,  Mr 
Elwyn  bore  her  back  to  the  house,  and  Margaret,  filling 
a  pitcher  with  water,  bathed  her  face,  moistened  her  lips. 
and  applied  other  restoratives,  until  she  revived  enough 
to  say,  "  More  water,  Willie.  Give  me  more  water !  " 

Eagerly  she  drained  the  goblet  which  Margaret  held  to 
her  lips,  and  was  about  drinking  the  second,  when  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time  sought  Margaret's  face.  With  3 
cry  between  a  groan  and  a  scream,  she  lay  back  upon  hei 
pillows,  saying,  "Margaret  Hamilton,  how  came  you 
here  ?  What  have  you  to  do  with  me,  and  why  do  you 
give  me  water  ?  Didn't  I  refuse  it  to  Willie,  when  he 
begged  so  earnestly  for  it  in  the  night  time  ?•  But  I  ?ve 
been  paid — a  thousand  times  paid — left  by  my  own  child 
to  die  alone  !  " 

Margaret  was  about  asking  for  Lenora,  when  the  young 
lady  herself  appeared.  She  seemed  for  a  moment  greatly 
surprised  at  the  sight  of  Margaret,  and  then  bounding  to 
ner  side,  greeted  her  with  much  affection ;  while  Mrs. 
Hamilton  jealously  looked  on,  muttering  to  herself, 
"Loves  everybody  better  than  she  does  me,  her  own 
mother  who  has  done  so  much  for  her." 

Lenora  made  no  reply  to  this,  although  she  manifested 
much  concern  when  Margaret  told  her  in  what  state  they 
had  found  her  mother. 

"  I  went  for  a  few  moments  1r:  visit  a  sick  friend,"  said 
she,  "  Trut  told  Hester  to  stay  with  mother  until  I  re 
turned;  and  I  wonder  much  that  she  should  leave 
her." 


110  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

"  Lenora,"  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  "  Lenora,  was  that  sick 
friend  the  old  porter  ?  " 

Lenora  answered  in  the  affirmative ;  and  then  her 
mother,  turning  to  Margaret,  said,  "You  don't  know 
what  a  pest  and  torment  this  child  has  always  been  to 
me,  and  now  when  I  ain  dying,  she  deserts  me  for  a  low 
lived  fellow,  old  enough  to  be  her  father." 

Lenora's  eyes  flashed  scornfully  upon  her  mother,  but 
she  made  no  answer,  and  as  Mr.  Elwyn  was  in  haste  to 
proceed  on  his  journey,  Margaret  arose  to  go.  Lenora 
urged  them  to  remain  longer,  but  they  declined ;  and  as 
she  accompanied  them  to  the  door,  Margaret  said,  "  Le 
nora,  if  your  mother  should  die,  and  it  would  afford  you 
any  satisfaction  to  have  me  come,  I  will  do  so,  for  I  sup 
pose  you  have  no  near  friends." 

Lenora  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  whispering  to 
Margaret  of  the  relationship  existing  between  herself  anc 
the  old  porter,  she  said,  "  He  is  sick  and  poor,  but  he  ih 
my  own  father,  and  I  love  him  dearly." 

The  tears  came  to  Margaret's  eyes,  for  she  thought  of 
her  own  father,  called  home  while  his  brown  hair  was 
scarcely  touched  with  the  frosts  of  time.  Wistfully  Le 
nora  watched  the  carriage  as  it  disappeared  from  sight, 
and  then  half  reluctantly  entered  the  sick-room,  where, 
for  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon,  she  endured  her 
mother's  reproaches  for  having  left  her  alone,  and  where 
once,  when  her  patience  was  .wholly  exhausted,  she  said, 
"  It  served  you  right,  for  now  you  know  how  little  Willie 
felt." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Hamilton  was  much  worse,  and  Lc^ 
uora,  who  had  watched  and  who  understood  her  symp 
toms,  felt  confident  that  she  would  die,  and  loudly  her 
conscience  upbraided  her  for  her  undutiful  conduct.  She 
longed,  too,  to  tell  her  that  her  father  was  still  living 


KET11IBUTION.  Ill 

&nd  one  evening,  when,  for  an  hour  or  two,  her  mother 
seemed  better,  she  arose,  and  bending  over  her  pillow^ 
said,  "  Mother,  did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  father  might 
not  be  dead  ?  " 

"  Not  be  dead,  Lenora !  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  starting  up  from  her  pillow. 

Cautiously  then  Lenora  commenced  her  story  by  re 
ferring  her  mother  back  to  the  old  beggar,  who  some 
months  before  had  been  in  the  kitchen.  Then  she  spoke 
of  the  old  porter,  and  the  resemblance  which  was  said  to 
exist  between  him  and  herself;  and  finally,  as  she  saw  her 
mother  could  bear  it,  she  told  the  whole  story  of  her  fa 
ther's  life.  Slowly  the  sick  woman's  eyes  closed,  and  Le 
nora  saw  that  her  eyelids  were  wet  with  tears,  but  as 
she  made  no  reply,  Lenora,  ere  long,  whispered,  "  Would 
you  like  to  see  him,  mother  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  riot  now,"  was  the  answer. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  and  then  Lenora,  again 
speaking,  said,  "  Mother,  I  have  often  been  very  wicked 
and  disrespectful  to  you,  and  if  you  should  die,  I  should 
feel  much  happier  knowing  that  you  forgave  me.  Will 
you  do  it,  mother,  say?" 

Mrs.  Hamilton  comprehended  only  the  words,  "  if  you 
should  die,"  so  she  said,  "  Die,  die !  who  says  that  I  must 
die  ?  I  shan't — I  can't ;  for  what  could  I  tell  her  about 
her  children,  and  how  could  I  live  endless  ages  without 
water.  I  tried  it  once,  and  I  can't  do  it.  No,  I  can't.  I 
won't ! " 

In  this  way  she  talked  all  night ;  and  though  in  tho 
morning  she  was  more  rational,  she  turned  away  from  the 
clergyman,  who  at  Lenora's  request  had  been  sent  for, 
saying,  "  It 's  of  no  use,  no  use ;  I  know  all  you  would 
say,  but  it 's  too  late,  too  late !  " 

Thus  she  continued  for  three  days,  and  at  the  close  of 


112  THE  HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDE. 

tlie  third,  it  became  evident  to  all  that  she,was  dying,  and 
Hester  was  immediately  sent  to  the  hotel,  with  a  request 
that  the  old  porter  would  come  quickly.  Half  an  hour 
after,  Lenora  bent  over  her  mother's  pillow,  and  whispered 
in  her  ear,  "  Mother,  can  you  hear  me  ?  " 

A  pressure  of  the  hand  was  the  reply,  and  Lenora 
continued :  "  You  have  not  said  that  you  forgave  me, 
and  now  before  you  die,  will  you  not  tell  me  so  ?  " 

There  was  another  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  Lenora 
again  spoke  :  "  Mother,  would  you  like  to  see  him — my 
father  ?  He  is  in  the  next  room." 

This  roused  the  dying  woman,  and  starting  up,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  See  John  Carter !  No,  child,  no.  He'd  only 
curse  me.  Let  him  wait  until  I  am  dead,  and  then  I  shall 
not  hear  it." 

In  ten  minutes  more,  Lenora  was  sadly  gazing  upon  the 
fixed,  stony  features  of  the  dead*  A  gray-haired  man  was 
at  her  side,  and  his  lip  quivered,  as  he  placed  his  hand  upon 
the  white,  wrinkled  brow  of  her  who  had  once  been  his 
wife.  "  She  is  fearfully  changed,"  were  his  only  words, 
as  he  turned  away  from  the  bed  of  death. 

True  to  her  promise,  Margaret  came  to  attend  her  step 
mother's  funeral.  Walter  accompanied  her,  and  shud 
dered  as  he  looked  on  the  face  of  one  who  had  so  dark 
ened  his  home,  and  embittered  his  life.  Kate  was  not 
there,  and  whefn,  after  the  burial,  Lenora  asked  Margaret 
for  her,  she  was  told  of  a  little  "  Carrie  Lenora,"  who, 
with  pardonable  pride,  Walter  thought  was  the  only 
baby  of  any  consequence  in  the  world.  Margaret  was 
going  on  with  a  glowing  description  of  the  babe's  many 
beauties,  when  she  was  interrupted  by  Lenora  who  laid 
her  face  in  her  lap  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  Lenora,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Margaret. 

As  soon  as  Lenora  became  calm,  she  answered,  "  that 


KETEIBUTIOlSr.  113 

name,  Maggie.  You  have  given  my  name  to  Walter 
Hamilton's  child,  and  if  you  had  hated  me,  you  would 
never  have  done  it." 

"  Hated  you !  "  repeated  Margaret,  "  we  do  not  hate 
YOU;  now  that  we  understand  you,  we  like  you  very 
much,  and  one  of  Kate's  last  injunctions  to  Walter  was, 
that  he  should  again  oifer  you  a  home  with  him." 

Once  more  Lenora  was  weeping.  She  had  not  shed  a 
tear  when  they  carried  from  sight  her  mother,  but  words 
of  kindness  touched  her  heart,  and  the  fountain  was 
opened.  At  last,  drying  her  eyes,  she  said,  "  I  prefer  to 
go  with  father.  Walter  will,  of  course,  come  back  to 
the  homestead,  while  father  and  I  shall  return  to  our  old 
home  in  Connecticut,  where,  by  being  kind  to  him,  I 
hope  to  atone,  in  a  measure,  for  my  great  unkindness  to 
mother." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FINALE. 

• 

THROUGH  the  open  casement  of  a  small,  white  cottage 

in  the  village  of  P ,  the  rays  of  the  September  moon 

are  stealing,  disclosing  to  view  a  gray-haired  man,  whose 
placid  face  still  shows  marks  of  long  years  of  dissipation. 
Affectionately  he  caresses  the  black,  curly  head,  which  is 
resting  on  his  knee,  and  softly  he  says,  "Lenora,  my 
daughter,  there  are,  I  trust,  years  of  happiness  in  store  fot 
us  both." 

"  I  hope  it  may  be  so,"  was  the  answer,  "  but  there  is 
DO  promise  of  many  days  to  any  save  those  who  honoi 


114  THE   HOMESTEAD  OX  THE  HILLSIDE. 

tlieir  father  and  mother.  This  last  I  have  never  done, 
though  many,  many  times  have  I  repented  of  it,  and  I 
begin  to  be  assured  that  we  may  be  happy  yet  " 


Away  to  the  westward,  over  many  miles  of  woodland, 
valley,  and  lull,  the  same  September  moon  shines  upon 
the  white  wan^  of  the  homestead,  where  sits  the  owner, 
Walter  Hamilton,  gazing  first  upon  his  wife,  and  then 
upon  the  tiny  treasure  which  lies  sleeping  upon  her  lap. 

"  We  arc  very  happy,  Katy  darling,"  he  says,  and  the 
affection  which  looks  from  her  large,  blue  eyes,  as  she 
lifts  them  to  his  face,  is  a  sufficient  answer. 

Margaret,  too,  is  there,  and  though  but  an  hour  ago  her 
tears  were  falling  upon  the  grass  grown  graves,  where 
slept  her  father  and  mother,  the  gentle  Carrie  and  gol 
den-haired  Willie,  they  are  all  gone  now,  and  she  re 
sponds  to  her  brother's  words,  "Yes,  Walter,  we  are 
very  happy." 


In  the  basement  below  the  candle  is  burned  to  ita 
Bocket,  and  as  the  last  raj  flickers  up,  illuminating  for  a 
moment  the  room,  and  then  leaving  it  in  darkness,  Aunt 
Polly  Pepper  starts  from  her  evening  nap,  a»d  as  if  con 
tinuing  her  dfeam,  mutters,  "  Yes,  this  is  pleasant,  and 
something  like  living." 


And  so  with  the  moonlight  and  starlight  falling  upon 
the  old  homestead,  and  the  sunlight  of  love  falling  upon 
the  hearts  of  its  inmates,  we  bid  them  adieu. 


CHAPTER  I. 

K  I  C  E     CORNER. 

YES,  Rice  Corner !  Do  you  think  it  a  queer  name  ? 
Well,  Rice  Corner  was  a  queer  place,  and  deserved  a 
queer  name.  Now  whether  it  is  celebrated  for  anything 
in  particular,  I  really  can't,  at  this  moment,  think,  unless, 
indeed,  it  is  famed  for  having  been  my  birth-place ! 
"Whether  this  of  itself  is  sufficient  to  immortalize  a  place, 
future  generations  may,  perhaps,  tell,  but  I  have  some  mis 
givings  whether  the  present  will.  This  idea  may  be  the 
result  of  my  having  recently  received  sundry  knocks  over 
the  knuckles  in  the  shape  of  criticisms. 

But  I  know  one  thing, — on  the  bark  of  that  old  chest 
nut  tree  which  stands  near  Rice  Corner  school-house,  my 
name  is  cut  higher  than  some  of  my  more  bulky  cotem- 
porary  quill — or  rather  steel — pen-wielders  ever  dared  to 
<3limb.  To  be  sure,  I  tore  my  dress,  scratched  my  face, 
and  committed  numerous  other  little  rompish  miss-de- 
meanors,  which  procured  for  me  a  motherly  scolding* 
That,  however,  was  of  minor  consideration,  when  <?om- 
pared  with  having  my  name  up — in  the  ches*.  nut  tree,  at 
least,  if  it  couldn't  be  up  in  the  world.  But  pardon  my 
egotism,  and  I  will  proceed  with  my  story  about  Rice 
Corner. 

Does  any  one  wish  to  kno^  whereabouts  on  this  rolling 


116  KICE    CORNER. 

sphere  Rice  Corner  is  situated  ?  I  don't  believe  you  can 
find  it  on  the  map,  unless  your  eyes  are  bluer  and  bigger 
than  mine,  which  last  they  can't  very  well  be.  But  I  can 
tell  you  to  a  dot  where  Rice  Corner  should  be.  Just 
take  your  atlas, — not  the  last  one  published,  but  Olney's, 
that's  the  one  I  studied, — and  right  in  one  of  those  little 
towns  in  Worcester  county  is  Rice  Corner,  snugly  nestled 
among  the  gray  rocks  and  blue  hills  of  New  England. 

Yes,  Rice  Corner  was  a  great  place,  and  so  you  would 
have  thought  could  you  have  seen  it  in  all  its  phases, 
with  its  brown,  red,  green,  yellow,  and  white  houses,  each 
of  which  had  the  usual  quantity  of  rose  bushes,  lilacs, 
hollyhocks,  and  sunflowers,  You  should  have  seen  my 
home,  my  New  England  home,  where  once,  not  many 
years  ago,  a  happy  group  of  children  played.  Alas  !  alas ! 
some  of  those  who  gave  the  sunlight  to.  that  spot,  have 
left  us  now  forever,  and  on  the  bright  shores  of  the  eter 
nal  river  they  wait  and  watch  our  coming.  I  do  not  ex 
pect  a  stranger  to  love  our  old  homestead  as  I  loved  it,  foi 
La  each  heart  is  a  fresh,  green  spot — the  memory  of  its 
own  early  home — where  the  sunshine  was  brighter,  the 
well  waters  cooler,  and  the  song-bird's  carol  sweeter  than 
elsewhere  they  are  found. 

I  trust  I  shall  be  forgiven,  ifj  in  this  chapter,  I  pause 
awhile  to  speak  of  my  home, — aye,  and  of  myself,  too, 
when,  a  light-hearted  child,  I  bounded  through  the  mead 
ows  and  orchards  which  lay  around  the  old  brown  house 
on  my  father's  farm.  'Tw.is  a  large,  square,  two-storiccl 
building,  that  old  brown  farm-house,  containing  rooms, 
cupboards,  and  closets  innumerable,  and  what  was  better 
than  all,  a  large,  airy  garret,  where,  on  all  rainy  days, 
and  days  when  it  looked  as  if  it  would  rain,  Bill,  JOG, 
Lizzie  and  I,  assembled  to  hold  our  noisy  revels.  Never, 
since  th  3  days  of  our  great-grandmothers,  did  little  spin. 


BICE  COKJTEB.  11 

ning  wheel  buzz  round  faster  than  did  the  one  which,  in 
the  darkest  corner  of  that  garret,  had  been  safely  stowed 
away,  where  they  guessed  "the  young-ones  wouldn't 
find  it." 

"Wouldn't  find  it!"  I  should  like  to  know  what 
there  was  in  that  old  garret  that  we  did  n't  find,  and  ap 
propriate,  too !  Even  the  old  oaken  chest  which  con 
tained  our  grandmother's  once  fashionable  attire,  was  not 
sacred  from  the  touch  of  our  lawless  hands.  Into  its 
deep  recesses  we  plunged,  and  brought  out  such  curiosi 
ties, — the  queerest  looking,  high  crowned,  broad  frilled 
caps,  narrow  gored  shirts,  and  what  was  funnier  than  all, 
a  strange  looking  thing  which  we  thought  must  be  a  side 
saddle, — any  way,  it  fitted  Joe's  rocking  horse  admira 
bly,  although  we  wondered  why  so  much  whalebone  was 
necessary ! 

One  day,  in  the  midst  of  our  gambols,  in  walked  the 
identical  owner  of  the  chest,  and  seeing  the  side-saddle, 
she  said,  somewhat  angrily,  "  Why,  children,  where  upon 
airth  did  you  find  my  old  stays  ?  "  We  never  wondered 
again  what  made  grandma's  back  keep  its  place  so  much 
better  than  ours,  and  Bill  had  serious  thoughts  of  trying 
the  effect  of  the  stays  upon  himself. 

In  the  rear  of  our  house  and  sloping  toward  the  set 
ting  sun,  was  a  long,  winding  lane,  leading  far  down  into 
a  wide-spreading  tract  of  flowery  woods,  shady  hillside, 
and  grassy  pasture  land,  each  in  their  turn  highly  suggest 
ive  of  brown  nuts,  delicious  strawberries,  and  venomous 
snakes.  These  last  were  generally  more  the  creatures  of 
imagination  than  of  reality,  for  in  all  my  wanderings  over 
those  fields,  and  they  were  many,  I  never  but  once  trod 
upon  a  green  snake,  and  only  once  was  I  chased  by  a 
white  ringed  black  snake ;  so  I  think  I  am  safe  in  saying 


118  BICE  COB3EB. 

that  the  snakes  were  not  so  numerous  as  were  the  nuts 
and  berries,  which  grew  there  in  great  profusion. 

A  little  to  the  right  of  the  woods,  where,  in  winter, 
Bill,  Joe,  Lizzie,  and  I  dragged  our  sleds  and  boards  for 
the  purpose  of  riding  down  hill,  was  a  merry,  frolicking 
stream  of  water,  over  which,  in  times  long  gone,  a  saw 
mill  had  been  erected ;  but  owing  to  the  inefficiency  of  its 
former  owner,  or  something  else,  the  mill  had  fallen  into 
disuse,  and  gradually  gone  to  decay.  The  water  of  the 
brook,  relieved  from  the  necessity  of  turning  the  splut 
tering  wheel,  now  went  gaily  dancing  down,  down  into 
the  depths  of  the  dun  old  woods,  and  far  away,  I  never 
knew  exactly  where ;  but  having  heard  rumors  of  a  jump 
ing  off  place,  I  had  a  vague  impression  that  at  that  spot 
the  waters  of  the  miil-dam  put  up ! 

Near  the  saw  mill,  and  partially  hidden  by  the  scraggy 
pine  trees  and  thick  bushes  which  drooped  over  its  en 
trance,  was  a  long,  dark  passage,  leading  underground ; 
not  so  large,  probably,  as  Mammoth  Cave,  but  in  my  es 
timation  rivaling  it  in  interest.  This  was  an  old  mine, 
where,  years  before,  men  had  dug  for  gold.  Strange 
stories  were  told  of  those  who,  with  blazing  torches, 
and  blazing  noses,  most  likely,  there  toiled  for  the  yellow 
dust.  The  "  Ancient  Henry  "  himself,  it  was  said,  some 
times  left  his  affairs  at  home,  and  joined  the  nightly  rev 
els  in  that  mine,  where  cards  and  wine  played  a  conspicu 
ous  part.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  old  mine  was  sur 
rounded  by  a  halo  of  fear,  which  we  youngsters  never 
cared  to  penetrate. 

On  a  fine  afternoon  an  older  sister  would  occasionally 
wander  that  way,  together  with  a  young  M.  D.,  whose 
principal  patient  seemed  to  be  at  our  house,  for  his  little 
black  pony  very  frequently  found  shelter  in  our  stable  by 
the  side  of  "  )ld  sorrel."  From,  the  north  garret  window 


BICE  CORKER.  1  ] 

I  would  watch  them,  wondering  how  they  dared  ventura 
so  near  the  old  mine,  and  wishing,  mayhap,  that  the  timo 
would  come  when  I,  with  some  daring  doctor,  would  risk 
everything.  The  time  has  come,  but  alas !  instead  of  be* 
ing  a  doctor,  he  is  only  a  lawyer,  who  never  even  saw 
the  old  mine  in  Rice  Corner. 

Though  I  never  ventured  close  to  the  old  mine,  thero 
was,  not  far  from,  it,  one  pleasant  spot  where  I  loved 
dearly  to  go.  It  was  on  the  hillside,  where,  'neath  the 
shadow  of  a  gracefully  twining  grape-vine,  lay  a  large, 
flat  rock.  Thither  would  I  often  repair,  and  sit  for  hours 
listening  to  the  hum  of  the  running  water  brook,  or  the 
song  of  the  summer  birds,  who,  like  me,  seemed  to  love 
that  place.  Often  would  I  gaze  far  oif  at  the  distant, 
misty  horizon,  wondering  if  I  should  ever  know  w^hat 
was  beyond  it.  Wild  fancies  then  filled  my  childish 
brain.  Strange  voices  whispered  to  me  thoughts  and 
ideas,  which,  if  written  down  and  carried  out,  would,  I 
am  sure,  have  placed  my  name  higher  than  it  was  carved 
on  the  old  chestnut  tree. 

"  But  they  came  and  went  like  shadows, 
Those  blessed  dreams  of  youth." 

I  was  a  strange  child,  I  know.  Everybody  told  me  so, 
and  I  knew  it  well  enough  without  being  told.  The  wise 
old  men  of  Rice  Corner  and  their  still  wiser  old  wives, 
looked  at  me  askance,  as  'neath  the  thorn-apple  tree  I 
built  my  play-house  and  baked  my  little  loaves  of  mud 
bread.  But  when,  forgetful  of  others,  I  talked  aland  to 
myriads  of  little  folks,  unseen  'tis  true,  but  still  real  to 
me,  they  shook  their  gray  heads  ominously,  and  whisper 
ing  to  my  mother  said,  "  Mark  our  words,  that  girl  will 
one  day  be  crazy.  In  ten  years  more  she  will  be  an  in- 
mate  of  the  mad-house  1 " 


120  KICE  CORNER. 

And  then  I  wondered  what  a  mad-house  was,  and  if 
the  people  there  all  acted  as  our  school  teacher  did  when 
Bill  and  the  big  girls  said  he  was  mad !  The  ten  years 
have  passed,  and  I'm  not  in  a  mad-house  yet,  unless,  in 
deed,  it  is  one  of  my  own  getting  up ! 

One  thing  more  about  Rice  Corner,  and  then,  honor 
bright,  I'll  linish  the  preface  and  go  on  with  the  story.  I 
must  tell  you  about  the  old  school-house,  and  the  road 
which  led  to  it.  This  last  wound  around  a  long  hill,  and 
was  skirted  on  either  side  with  tall  trees,  flowering  dog 
wood,  blackberry  bushes,  and  frost  grape-vines.  Halfway 
down  the  hill,  and  under  one  of  the  tallest  walnut  trees, 
was  a  little  hollow,  where  dwelt  the  goblin  with  which 
nurses,  housemaids,  hired  men,  and  older  sisters  were 
wont  to  frighten  refractory  children  into  quietness.  It 
was  the  grave  of  ^aq  old  negro.  Alas!  that  to  his  last 
resting  place  the  curse  should  follow  him !  Had  it  been 
a  white  person  who  rested  there,  not  half  so  fearful  would 
have  been  the  spot ;  now,  however,  it  was  "  the  old  nig 
ger  hole"  —  a  place  to  run  by,  if  by. accident  you  were 
caught  out  after  dark  —  a  place  to  be  threatened  with,  if 
you  cried  in  the  night  and  wanted  the  candle  lighted — a 
landmark  where  to  stop,  when  going  part  way  home  with 
the  little  girl  who  had  been  to  visit  wm,  and  who,  on 
leaving  you,  ran  no  less  swiftly  than  you  yourself  did, 
half  fearing  that  the  dusky  form  in  the  hollow  would  rise 
and  try  his  skill  at  running.  Verily,  my  heart  has  beat 
faster  at  the  thoughts  of  that  dead  negro,  than  it  ever  has 
since  at  the  sight  of  a  hundred  live  specimens,  "  way  down 
eouth  on  the  old  plantation." 

The  old  school-house,  too,  had  its  advantages  and  its 
disadvantages ;  of  the  latter,  one  was  that  there,  both 
Bummor  and  winter,  but  more  especially  during  the  last 
mentioned  season,  all  the  rude  boys  in  the  place  thought 


EICE  COENER.  121 

tney  had  a  perfect  right  to  congregate  and  annoy  the 
girls  in  every  possible  way.  But,  never  mind,  not  a  few 
wry  faces  we  made  at  them,  and  not  a  few  "  blockheads" 
we  pinned  to  their  backs!  Oh!  I've  had  rare  times  in 
that  old  house,  and  have  seen  there  rare  sights,  too,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  fights  which  occasionally  occurred." 
In  these  last,  brother  Joe  generally  took  the  lead  of  one 
party,  while  Jim  Brown  commanded  the  other.  Dire 
was  the  confusion  which  reigned  at  such  times.  Books 
were  hurled  from  side  to  side.  Then  followed  in  quick 
succession  shovel,  tongs,  poker,  water  cup,  water  pail, 
water  and  all ;  and  to  cap  the  climax,  Jim  Brown  once 
seized  the  large  iron  pan,  which  stood  upon  the  stove,  half 
filled  with  hot  water,  and  hurled  it  in  the  midst  of  the  en 
emy.  Luckily  nobody  was  killed,  and  but  few  wounded. 
Years  in  their  rapid  flight  have  rolled  away  since  then, 
and  he,  my  brother,  is  sleeping  alone  on  the  wild  shore 
of  California. 

For  scarcely  had  the  sad  tones  died, 

Which  echoed  the  farewell, 
When  o'er  the  "western  prairies 

There  came  a  funeral  knell ; 
It  said  that  he  who  went  from  us, 

While  yet  upon  his  brow 
The  dew  of  youth  was  glistening, 

Had  passed  to  heaven  now. 

James  Brown,  too,  is  resting  in  the  church-yard,  near 
his  own  home,  and  'neath  his  own  native  sky. 


122  EICE  COKNER. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  BELLE  OP  KICE  COENER. 

YES,  Rice  Corner  had  a  belle,  but  it  was  not  I.  Oh,  n* 
nobody  ever  mistook  me  for  a  belle,  or  much  of  anything 
else,  in  fact ;  I  was  simply  "Mary  Jane,"  or,. if  that  was 
not  consise  enough,  •"  Crazy  Jane,"  set  the  matter  all 
right.  The  belle  of  which  I  speak  was  a  bona  fide  one — - 
fine  complexion,  handsome  features,  beautiful  eyes,  curl 
ing  hair  and  all.  And  yet,  in  her  composition  there  was 
something  wanting,  something  very  essential,  too ;  for 
she  lacked  soul,  and  would  at  any  time  have  sold  her  best 
friend  for  a  flattering  compliment. 

Still  Carrie  Howard  was  generally  a  favorite.  The  old 
people  liked  her  because  her  sparkling  eye  and  merry 
laugh  brought  back  to  them  a  gleam  of  youth ;  the  young 
people  liked  her,  because  to  dislike  her  would  seem  like 
envy ;  and  I,  who  was  nothing,  liked  her  because  she  was 
pretty,  and  I  greatly  admired  beauty,  though  I  am  not 
certain  that  I  should  not  have  liked  a  handsome  rose-bud 
quite  as  well  as  I  did  Carrie  Howard's  beautiful  face,  for 
beautiful  she  was. 

Her  mother,  good,  plain  Mrs.  Howard,  was  entirely  un 
like  her  daughter.  She  was  simply  "Mrs.  Capt.  How 
ard,"  or,  in  other  words,  "  Aunt  Eunice,"  whose  benevo 
lent  smile  and  kindly  beaming  eye  carried  contentment 
wherever  she  went.  Really,  I  don't  know  how  Rice  Cor 
ner  could  have  existed  one  day  without  the  presence  of 
Aunt  Eunice.  Was  there  a  cut  foot  or  hand  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  hers  was  the  salve  which  healed  it,  almost  as  soon 
as  applied.  Was  there  a  pale,  fretful  baby,  Aunt  Eunice's 
large  bundle  of  catnip  was  sure  to  soothe  it  •  and  did  a  sick 


THE  BELLE  OF  K1CE  COENEK.  123 

person  need  watchers,  Aunt  Eunice  was  the  one  who, 
three  nights  out  of  the  seven,  trod  softly  and  quietly 
about  the  sick-room,  anticipating  each  want  before  you 
yourself  knew  what  it  was,  and  smoothing  your  tumbled 
pillow  so  gently  that  you  almost  felt  it  a  luxury  to  ba 
sick,  for  the  sake  of  being  nursed  by  Aunt  Eunice.  The 
very  dogs  and  cats  winked  more  composedly  when  she 
appeared;  and  even  the  chickens  learned  her  voice  al 
most  as  soon  as  they  did  the  cluck  of  thei.r  "  maternal 
ancestor." 

But  we  must  stop,  or  we  shall  make  Aunt  Eunice 
out  to  be  the  belle,  instead  of  Carrie,  who,  instead  of 
imitating  her  mother  in  her  acts  of  kindness,  sat  all  day 
in  the  large  old  parlor,  thumping  away  on  a  rickety  pi 
ano,  or  trying  to  transfer  to  broadcloth  a  poor  little  kittle, 
whose  face  was  sufficiently  indicative  of  surprise  at  find 
ing  its  limbs  so  frightfully  distorted. 

When  Carrie  was  fifteen  years  of  age,  her  father,  con 
cluding  that  she  knew  all  which  could  possibly  be  learned 
in  the  little  brown  house,  where  Joe  and  Jim  once  fought 
so  fiercely,  sent  her  for  three  years  to  Albany.  It  Avas 
currently  reported  that  the  uncle  with  whom  she  boarded, 
received  his  pay  in  butter,  cheese,  potatoes,  apples,  and 
other  commodities,  which  were  the  product  of  Capt. 
Howard's  farm.  Whether  this  was  true  or  not,  I  am 
not  prepared  to  say,  but  I  suppose  it  was,  for  it  was 
told  by  those  who  had  no  ostensible  business,  except  to 
attend  to  other  people's  affairs,  and  I  am  sure  they  ought 
to  have  known  nil  about  it,  and  probably  did. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Captain  Howard  made  a 
mistake  in  sending  Carrie  away ;  for  when  at  the  end  of 
three  years  she  had  "finished  her  education,"  and  returned 
home,  she  was  not  half  so  good  a  scholar  as  some 
of  those  who  had  pored  patiently  over  their  books  in  the 


L24  IttCE  COKNE3. 

old  brown  house.  Even  I  could  beat  her  in  spelling,  foi 
soon  after  she  came  home  the  boys  teased  for  a  spelling- 
school.  I  rather  think  they  were  quite  as  anxious  for  a 
chance  to  go  home  with  the  girls  as  they  were  to  havo 
their  knowledge  of  Webster  tested.  Be  tljat  as  it  may, 
Carrie  was  there,  and  was,  of  course,  chosen  first ;  but  I 
'little  crazy  Jane,"  spelled  the  whole  school  down!  I 
thought  Carrie  was  not  quite  so  handsome  as  she  might 
be,  when  with  an  angry  frown  she  dropped  into  her  seat, 
hissed  by  a  big,  cross-eyed,  red-haired  boy,  hi  the  corner, 
because  she  happened  to  spell  pumpkin,  "p-u-n  pun  It-i-n 
kin,  pimkin."  I  do  not  think  she  ever  quite  forgave  me 
for  the  pert,  loud  way  in  which  I  spelled  the  word  cor 
rectly,  for  she  never  gave  me  any  more  calicoes  or  silks, 
and  instead  of  calling  me  "  Mollie,"  as  she  had  before 
4one,  she  now  addressed  me  as  "  Miss  Mary." 

Carrie  possessed  one  accomplishment  which  the  other 
girls  did  not.  She  could  play  the  piano  most  skillfully, 
although  as  yet  she  had  no  instrument.  Three  weeks, 
however,  after  her  return,  a  rich  man,  who  lived  in  the 
village  which  was  known  as  "Over  the  River,"  failed,  and 
all  his  furniture  was  sold  at  auction.  Many  were  the  sur 
mises  of  my  grandmother,  on  the  morning  of  the  sale,  as 
to  what  "  Cap'n  Howard  could  be  going  to  buy  at  the 
vandue  and  put  in  the  big  lumber  wagon,"  which  he 
drove  past  our  house. 

As  the  day  drew  to  a  close,  I  was  posted  at  the  window 
to  telegraph  as  soon  as  "  Cap'n  Howard's  "  white  horses 
appeared  over  the  hill.  They  came  at  last,  but  the  long 
box  in  his  wagon  told  no  secret.  Father,  however,  ex 
plained  all,  by  saying  that  he  had  bid  off  Mr.  Talbott's 
old  piano  for  seventy  dollars !  Grandma  shook  her  head 
mournfully  at  the  degeneracy  of  the  age,  while  sister 
Anna  spoke  sneeringly  of  Mr.  Talbott's  cracked  piano. 


THE  BELLE  OF  EICE  COENEE.  125 

Next  day,  arrayed  in  my  Sunday  red  merino  and  white 
apron — a  present  from  some  cousin  out  west — I  went  to 
see  Carrie ;  and  truly,  the  music  she  drew  from  that  old 
piano  charmed  me  more  than  the  finest  performances  since 
have  done.  Carrie  and  her  piano  were  now  the  theme  of 
every  tongue,  and  many  wondered  how  Captain  Howard 
could  afford  to  pay  for  three  years'  music  lessons  ;  but  this 
was  a  mystery  yet  to  be  solved. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MONSIEUE      PENOTEK. 

Carrie  had  been  at  home  about  three  months, 
all  Rice  Corner  one  day  flew  to  the  doors  and  windows 
to  look  at  a  stranger,  a  gentleman  with  fierce  mustaches, 
who  seemed  not  at  all  certain  of  his  latitude,  and  evidently 
wanted  to  know  where  he  was  going.  At  least,  if  lie 
didn't,  they  who  watched  him  did. 

Grandma,  whose  longevity  had  not  impaired  her  guess 
ing  faculties,  first  suggested  that  "  most  likely  it  was  Car'- 
line  Howard's  beau."  This  was  altogether  too  probable 
to  be  doubted,  and  as  grandmother  had  long  contempla 
ted  a  visit  to  Aunt  Eunice,  she  now  determined  to  go 
that  very  afternoon,  as  she  "  could  judge  for  herself  what 
kind  of  a  match  Car'line  had  made."  Mother  tried  to 
dissuade  her  from  going  that  day,  but  the  old  lady  was 
incorrigible,  and  directly  after  dinner,  dressed  in  her  bom- 
basin,  black  silk  apron,  work  bag,  knitting  and  all,  she  de 
parted  for  Captain  Howard's. 


126  EICE  CORNER. 

They  wouldn't  confess  it,  but  I  knew  well  enough  that 
Juliet  and  Anna  were  impatient  for  her  return,  and  when 
the  shadows  of  twilight  began  to  fall,  I  was  twice  sent  into 
the  road  to  see  if  she  was  coming.  The  last  time  I  was 
successful,  and  in  a  few  moments  grandmother  was  among 
us ;  but  whatever  she  knew  she  kept  to  herself  until  the 
lamps  were  lighted  in  the  sitting^oom,  and  she,  in  her 
stuffed  rocking-chair,  was  toeing  off  the  stocking  only 
that  morning  commenced.  Then,  at  a  hint  from  Anna, 
she  cast  toward  Lizzie  and  me  a  rueful  glance,  saying, 
"  There  are  too  many  pitchers  here !  "  I  knew  then  just 
as  well  as  I  did  five  minutes  after,  that  Lizzie  and  I  must 
go  to  bed.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  and  we  complied 
with  a  tolerably  good  grace.  Lizzie  proposed  that  we 
should  listen,  but  somehow  I  couldn't  do  that,  and  up  to  this 
time  I  don't  exactly  know  what  grandmother  told  them. 

The  next  day,  however,  I  heard  enough  to  know  that 
his  name  was  Penoyer ;  that  grandma  did  n't  like  him ; 
that  he  had  as  much  hair  on  his  face  as  on  his  head ;  that 
Aunt  Eunice  would  oppose  the  match,  and  that  he  would 
stay  over  Sunday.  With  this  last  I  was  delighted,  for  I 
should  see  him  at  church.  I  saw  him  before  that,  how 
ever  ;  for  it  was  unaccountable  what  a  fancy  Carrie  sud 
denly  took  for  traversing  the  woods  and  riding  on  horse 
back,  for  which  purpose  grandfather's  side-saddle  (not 
the  one  with  which  Joe  saddled  his  pony!)  was  borrowed, 
and  then,  with  her  long  curls  and  blue  riding  skirt  floating 
in  the  wind,  Carrie  galloped  over  hills  and  through  val 
leys,  accompanied  by  Penoyer,  who  was  a  fierce  looking 
fellow,  with  black  eyes,  black  hair,  black  whiskers,  and 
black  face. 

I  couldn't  help  fancying  that  the  negro  who  lay  beneath 
the  walnut  tree,  had  resembled  him,  and  I  cried  for  fear 
Carrie  might  marry  so  ugly  a  man,  thinking  it  would  not 


MONSIEUR  PEXOYER.  127 

be  altogether  unluw,  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast."  Sally,  our 
housemaid,  said  that  "  most  likely  he'd  prove  to  be  some 
poor,  mean  scamp.  Any  way,  seein'  it  was  plantin'  time, 
he'd  better  be  to  hum  tendin'  to  his  own  business,  if  he 
had  any." 

Sally  was  a  shrewd,  sharp-sighted  girl,  and  already  had 
her  preference  in  favor  of  Michael  Welsh,  father's  hired 
man.  "Walking,  riding  on  horseback,  and  wasting  time 
generally,  Sally  held  in  great  abhorrence.  "All  she 
wished  to  say  to  Mike  on  week  days,  she  could  tell  him 
milking  time."  On  Sundays,  however,  it  was  different, 
and  regularly  each  Sunday  night  found  Mike  and  Sally 
snugly  ensconced  in  the  "  great  room,"  while  under  the 
windows  occasionally  might  have  been  seen  three  or  four 
curly  heads,  eager  to  hear  something  about  which  to  tease 
Sally  during  the  week. 

But  to  return  to  Monsieur  Penoyer,  as  Carrie  called 
him.  His  stay  was  prolonged  beyond  the  Sabbath,  and 
on  Tuesday  I  was  sent  to  Capt.  Howard's  on  an  errand. 
I  found  Aunt  Eunice  in  the  kitchen,  her  round,  rosy  face, 
always  suggestive  of  seed  cake  and  plum  pudding,  Hushed 
with  exertion,  her  sleeves  tucked  up  and  her  arms  buried 
in  a  large  wooden  bowl  of  dough,  which  she  said  was  go 
ing  to  be  made  into  loaves  of  'lection  cake,  as  Carrie  was 
to  have  a  party  to-morrow,  and  I  had  come  just  in  time 
to  carry  invitations  to  my  sisters. 

Carrie  was  in  the  parlor,  and  attracted  by  the  sound  of 
music,  I  drew  near  the  door,  when  Aunt  Eunice  kindly 
bade  me  enter.  I  did  so,  and  was  presented  to  Monsieur  Pe 
noyer.  At  first,  I  was  shy  of  him,  for  I  remembered  that 
Sally  had  said,  "he  don't  know  nothin',"  and  this  in  my  es 
timation  was  the  worst  crime  of  which  he  could  be  guilty. 
Gradually,  my  timidity  gave  way,  and  when,  at  Carrie's 


_»28  RICE   CORNER. 

request,  he  played  and  sang  for  me,  I  was  perfectly  d& 
lighted,  although  I  understood  not  a  word  he  said. 

When  he  finished,  Carrie  told  him  I  was  a  little  poet4 
and  then  repeated  some  foolish  lines  I  had  once  written 
about  her  eyes.  It  was  a  very  handsome  set  of  teeth 
which  he  showed,  as  he  said,  "  Magnifique  !  Tres  lien  I 
She  be  another  grand  Dr.  Watts  1 " 

I  knew  not  who  Dr.  Watts  was,  but  on  one  point  my 
mind  was  made  up — Monsieur  Ponoyer  knew  a  great  deal ! 
Ere  I  left,  Carrie  commissioned  me  to  invite  my  sisters  to 
her  party  on  the  morrow,  and  as  I  was  leaving  the  room, 
M.  Penoyer  said,  "  Ma  chere  Carrie,  why  vous  no  invite 
la  petite  girl !  " 

Accordingly  I  was  invited,  with  no  earthl^  prospect, 
however,  of  mother's  letting  me  go.  And  she  didn't 
either  ;  so  next  day,  after  Juliet  and  Anna  were  gone,  I 
went  out  behind  the  smoke-house  and  cried  until  I  got 
sleepy,  and  a  headache  too ;  then,  wishing  to  make  mother 
think  I  had  run  away,  I  crept  carefully  up  stairs  to  Bill's 
room,  where  I  slept  until  Sally's  sharp  eyes  ferreted  me 
out,  saying,  "  they  were  ah1  scared  to  death  about  me,  and 
had  looked  for  me  high  and  low,"  up  in  the  garret  and 
down  in  the  well,  I  supposed.  Concluding  they  were 
plagued  enough,!  condescended  to  go  down  stairs,  and  have 
my  head  bathed  in  camphor  and  my  feet  -parboiled  in  hoi 
water ;  then  I  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  white  teeth, 
curling  mustaches  and  "  Parlez  vous  Francais." 

Of  what  occurred  at  the  party  I  will  tell  you  as  it  was 
told  to  me.  All  the  elite  of  Rice  Corner  were  there,  of 
course,  and  as  each  new  arrival  entered  the  parlor,  M. 
Penoyer  eyed  them  coolly  through  an  opera  glass.  Sister 
Anna  returned  his  inspection  with  the  worst  face  she  could 
well  make  up,  for  which  I  half  blamed  her  and  half  didn't, 


MONSIEUR  PEXOYEE.  129 

as  I  felt  sure  I  should  have  done  the  same  under  like  cir 
cumstances. 

When  all  the  invited  guests  had  arrived,  except  myself 
(alas,  no  one  asked  why  I  tarried,)  there  ensued  an  awk 
ward  silence,  broken  only  by  the  parrot-like  chatter  of  M. 
PeiKyer,  who  seemed  determined  to  talk  nothing  but 
French,  although  Carrie  understood  him  but  little  better 
than  did  the  rest.  At  last  he  was  posted  up  to  the  piano. 

"  Mon  Dieu,  it  be  von  horrid  tone,"  said  he ;  then  off 
he  dashed  into  a  galloping  waltz,  keeping  time  with  hia 
head,  mouth,  and  eyes,  whicii  threatened  to  leave  their 
sockets  and  pounce  upon  the  instrument.  Rattlety-bang 
went  the  piano — like  lightning  went  Monsieur's  fingers, 
first  here,  then  there,  right  or  wrong,  hit  or  miss,  and  of- 
tener  miss  than  hit — now  alighting  among  the  keys  pro- 
miscuously,  then  with  a  tremendous  thump  making  all 
bound  again, —  and  finishing  up  with  a  flourish,  which 
snapped  two  strings  and  made  all  the  rest  groan  in  sym 
pathy,  as  did  the  astonished  listeners.  For  a  time  all  was 
still,  and  then  a  little  modest  girl,  Lily  Gordon,  her  face 
blushing  crimson,  said,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur, 
but  haven't  you  taught  music !  " 

The  veins  in  his  forehead  swelled,  as,  darting  a  wrathful 
look  at  poor  Lily,  he  exclaimed,  "  Le  Diable !  vat  vous 
take  me  for  ?  Von  dem  inusique  teacher,  eh  ?  " 

Poor  Lily  tried  to  stammer  her  apologies,  while  Carria 
sought  to  soothe  the  enraged  Frenchman,  by  saying,  that 
"Miss  Gordon  was  merely  complimenting  his  skill  in 
music." 

At  this  point,  the  carriage  which  carried  persons  to 
and  from  the  depot  drove  up,  and  from  it  alighted  a  very 
small,  genteel  looking  lady,  who  rapped  at  the  door  and 
asked,  "  if  Capt.  Howard  lived  there." 

In  a  moment  Carrie  was  half  stifling  her  with  kisses,  ex- 

9 


130  RICE    CORNER. 

claiming,  "Dear  Agnes,  this  is  a  pleasant  surpiise.     1  did 
not  expect  you  so  soon." 

The  lady  called  Agnes,  was  introduced  as  Miss  Hovey 
a  school-mate  of  Carrie's.  She  seemed  very  much  dis. 
posed  to  make  herself  at  home,  for,  throwing  her  hat  in 
one  place  and  her  shawl  in  another,  she  seated  herself  at 
the  piano,  hastily  running  over  a  few  notes ;  then  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience,  she  said,  "  O,  horrid !  a  few  more 
such  sounds  would  give  me  the  vapors  for  a  month ;  why 
don't  you  have  it  tuned  ?  " 

Ere  Carrie  could  reply,  Agnes'  eyes  lighted  upon  Pe- 
noyer,  who,  either  with  or  without  design,  had  drawn 
himself  as  closely  into  a  corner  as  he  well  could.  Spring 
ing  up,  she  brought  her  little  hands  together  with  energy, 
exclaiming,  "  Now,  heaven  defend  me,  what  fresh  game 
brought  you  here  ?  "  Then  casting  on  Carrie  an  angry 
glance,  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  ""What  does  it  mean? 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

Carrie  drew  nearer,  and  said  coaxingly,  "  I  didn't  ex- 
pect  you  so  soon;  but,  never  mind,  he  leaves  to-morrow. 
For  my  sake  treat  him  decently." 

The  pressure  which  Agnes  gave  Carrie's  hand  seemed 
to  say,  "  For  your  sake,  I  will,  but  for  no  other."  Then 
turning  to  Penoyer,  who  had  risen  to  his  feet,  she  said 
respectfully,  "  I  hardly  expected  to  meet  you  here,  sir." 

Her  tone  and  manner  had  changed.  Penoyer  knew  it, 
and,  with  the  coolest  effrontery  imaginable,  he  came  for 
ward,  bowing  and  scraping,  and  saying,  "  Comment  vous 
portez  vous,  Mademoiselle.  Je  suis  perfaitement  delighted 
to  see  you,"  at  the  same  time  offering  her  his  hand. 

All  saw  with  what  hauteur  she  declined  it,  but  only  one, 
and  that  was  Anna,  heard  her  as  she  said,  "  Keep  off,  Pe 
noyer  ;  don't  make  a  donkey  of  yourself."  It  was  strange, 
Anna  said,  "  how  far  into  his  boots  Penoyer  tried  to  draw 


MONSIEUR   PENOYER.  131 

himself,"  while  at   each  fresh  flash  of  Agnes'  keen,  blacli 
eyes,  he  winced,  either  from  foar  or  sympathy. 

The  restraint  which  had  surrounded  the  little  company 
gave  way  beneath  the  lively  sallies  and  sparkling  wit  of 
Agnes,  who,  instead  of  seeming  amazed  at  the  country 
girls,  was  apparently  as  much  at  ease  as  though  she  had 
been  entertaining  a  drawing  room  full  of  polished  city 
belles.  When  at  last  the  party  broke  up,  each  and  every 
one  was  in  love  with  the  little  Albany  lady,  although  all 
noticed  that  Carrie  seemed  troubled,  watching  Agnes  nar 
rowly  ;  and  whenever  she  saw  her  tete-a-tete  with  either  of 
her  companions,  she  would  instantly  draw  near,  and  seem 
greatly  relieved  on  finding  that  Penoyer  was  not  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  was  grandmother's  reply,  when  in 
formed  of  all  this.  "I  told  you  so.  I  knew  Car'line 
warn't  goin'  to  make  out  no  great." 

Juliet  and  Anna  thought  so  too,  but  this  did  not  pre 
vent  them  from  running  to  the  windows  next  morning  to 
see  Penoyer  as  he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  cars.  I,  who 
with  Lizzie  was  tugging  away  at  a  big  board  with  which 
we  thought  to  make  a  "  see-saw,"  was  honored  with  a 
graceful  wave  of  Monsieur's  hands,  and  the  words,  "  Au 
revoir,  ma  chere  Marie." 

That  day  Phoebe,  Aunt  Eunice's  hired  girl,  came  to 
our  house.  Immediately  Juliet  and  Anna  assailed  her 
with  a  multitude  of  questions.  The  amount  of  knowledge 
obtained  was,  that  "  Miss  Hovey  was  a  lady,  and  no  mis' 
take,  for  she  had  sights  of  silks  and  jewelry,  and  she  that 
morning  went  with  Phoebe  to  see  her  milk,  although  she 
didn't  dare  venture  inside  the  yard.  "  But,"  added  Phoebe, 
"  for  all  she  was  up  so  early  she  did  not  come  out  to 
breakfast  until  that  gentleman  was  gone." 

This  was   fresh  proof  that  Penoyer  was  not  "  comme  iJ 


132  BICE   CORNER. 

faut,"  and  Anna  expressed  her  determination  to  find  out 
all  about  him  ere  Agnes  went  home.  I  remembered  "  J>/. 
Watts"  and  the  invitation  to  the  party,  and  secretly 
hoped  she  would  find  out  nothing  bad. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

COUSIN      EMMA. 

AGNES  had  been  in  town  about  two  weeks,  when  my 
home  was  one  morning  thrown  into  a  state  of  unusual  ex 
citement  by  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Boston,  contain 
ing  the  intelligence  that  Cousin  Emma  Rushton,  who  had 
been  an  invalid  for  more  than  a  year,  wias  about  to  try 
the  effect  of  country  life  and  country  air. 

This  piece  of  news  operated  differently  upon  different 
members  of  our  family.  Juliet  exclaimed,  "Good,  good; 
Carrie  Howard  won't  hold  her  head  quite  so  high,  now, 
for  we  shall  have  a  city  lady,  too."  Anna  was  delighted, 
because  she  would  thus  have  an  opportunity  of  acquiring 
city  manners  and  city  fashions.  Sally  said,  snappishly, 
"  There's  enough  to  wait  on  now,  without  having  a  stuck- 
up  city  flirt,  faintin'  at  the  sight  of  a  worm,  and  screachin' 
if  a  fly  comes  toward  her."  Mother  had  some  misgivings 
OL  the  subject.  She  was  perfectly  willing  Emma  should 
come,  but  she  doubted  our  ability  to  entertain  her,  know 
ing  that  the  change  would  be  great  from  a  fashionable 
city  home  to  a  country  farm-house.  Grandmother,  who 
loved  to  talk  of  "my  daughter  in  the  city,"  was  pleased, 
and  to  console  mother,  said,  "  Never  you  mind,  Fanny  ; 


COUSIN   EMMA.  133 

leave  her  to  me ;  you  find  victuals  and  drink,  and  I  '11  do 
the  entertaining." 

Among  so  many  opinions  it  was  hard  for  me  to  arrive 
at  a  conclusion.  On  the  whole,  however,  I  was  glad,  un 
til  told  that  -during  Cousin  Emma's  stay  our  garret  gam 
bols  must  be  given  up,  and  that  I  must  not  laugh  loud,  or 
scarcely  speak  above  a  whisper,  for  she  was  sick,  and  it 
would  hurt  her  head.  Then  I  wished  Cousin  Emma  and 
Cousin  Emma's  head  would  stay  where  they  belonged. 

The  letter  was  received  on  Monday,  but  Emma  would 
not  come  until  Thursday ;  so  there  was  ample  time  for 
"fixing  up."  The  parlor-chamber  was  repapered,  the 
carpet  taken  up  and  shaken,  red  and  white  curtains  hung 
at  the  windows,  a  fresh  ball  of  Castile  soap  bought  for 
the  washstand,  and  on  Thursday  morning  our  pretty 
flower  beds  Avere  shorn  of  their  finest  ornaments,  with 
which  to  make  bouquets  for  the  parlor  and  parlor-cham 
ber.  Besides  that,  Sally  had  filled  the  pantry  with  cakes, 
pies,  gingerbread,  and  Dutch  cheese,  to  the  last  of  which 
I  fancied  Emma's  city  taste  would  not  take  kindly.  Then 
there  was  in  the  cellar  a  barrel  of  fresh  beer ;  so  every 
thing  was  done  which  could  be  expected. 

"When  I  went  home  for  my  dinner  that  day,  I  teased 
hard  to  be  allowed  to  stay  out  of  school  for  one  afternoon, 
but  mother  said  "No,"  although  she  suffered  me  to  wear 
my  pink  gingham,  with  sundry  injunctions  "not  to  burst 
the  hooks  and  eyes  all  off  before  night."  This,  by  the  way, 
was  my  besetting  sin ;  I  never  could  climb  a  tree,  no  mat 
ter  what  the  size  might  be,  without  invariably  coming 
down  minus  at  least  six  hooks  and  eyes ;  but  I  seriously 
thought  I  should  get  *ver  it  when  I  got  older  and  joined 
the  church. 

That  afternoon  seemed  of  interminable  length,  but  at 
last  I  saw  father's  carriage  coming,  and  quick  as  thought 


134  RICE  CORNISK. 

I  threw  my  grammar  out  of  the  window ;  after  which  I 
demurely  asked  "to  go  out  and  get  a  book  which  I  had 
dropped."  Permission  was  granted,  and  I  was  out  just 
in  time  to  courtesy  straight  down,  as  father,  pointing  to 
me,  said,  "There,  that's  our  little  crazy  Mollre,"  and  then 
I  got  a  glimpse  of  a  remarkably  sweet  face,  which  made 
the  tears  come  in  my  eyes,  it  was  so  pale. 

Perhaps  I  wronged  our  school  teacher ;  I  think  I  did, 
for  she  has  since  died ;  but  really  I  fancied  she  kept  us 
longer  that  night  on  purpose.  At  least,  it  was  nearly  five 
before  we  were  dismissed.  Then,  with  my  bonnet  in 
hand,  I  ran  for  home,  falling  down  once,  and  bursting  off 
the  lower  hook  !  I  entered  the  house  with  a  bound,  but 
was  quieted  by  grandmother,  who  said  Emma  was  lying 
down,  and  I  mustn't  disturb  her. 

After  waiting  some  time  for  her  to-  make  her  appear 
ance,  I  stole  softly  up  the  stairs  and  looked  in  where  she 
was.  She  saw  me,  and  instantly  rising,  said,  with  a  smile 
that  went  to  my  heart :  "And  this  must  be  Mary,  the  lit 
tle  crazy  girl ;  come  and  kiss  your  Cousin  Emma." 

Twining  my  arms  around  her  neck,  I  think  I  must  have 
cried,  for  she  repeatedly  asked  me  what  was  the  matter, 
and  as  I  could  think  of  no  better  answer,  I  at  last  told  her, 
"  I  didn't  like  to  have  folks  call  me  crazy.  I  couldn't  help 
acting  like  Sal  Furbush,  the  old  crazy  woman,  who  threat 
ened  to  toss  us  up  in  the  umbrella." 

"  Forgive  me,  darling,"  said  Emma,  coaxingly,  "  I  will 
not  do  it  again;"  then  stooping  down,  she  looked  intently 
into  my  eyes,  soliloquizing,  "Yes,  it  is  wrong  to  tell  her  so." 

In  a  few  moments  I  concluded  Emma  was  the  most  beau 
tiful  creature  in  the  world;  I  y>*ould  not  even  except  Car 
rie  Howard.  Emma's  features  were  perfectly  regular, 
and  her  complexion  white  and  pure  as  alabaster.  Her 
hair,  which  was  a  rich  auburn,  lay  around  her  forehead  in 


COUSIN  EMMA.  135 

thick  waves,  but  her  great  beauty  consisted  in  her  lus 
trous  blue  eyes,  which  were  very  large  and  dark.  When 
she  was  pleased  they  laughed,  and  when  she  was  sad 
they  were  sad,  too.  Her  dress  was  a  white  muslin 
wrapper,  confined  at  the  waist  by  a  light  blue  ribbon, 
while  one  of  the  same  hue  encircled  her  neck,  and  was 
fastened  by  a  small  gold  pin,  which,  with  the  exception 
of  the  costly  diamond  ring  on  her  linger,  was  the  only  or 
nament  she  wore. 

When  supper  was  ready,  I  proudly  led  her  to  the  di 
ning-room,  casting  a  look  of  triumph  at  Juliet  and  Anna, 
and  feeling,  it  may  be,  a  trifle  above  grandmother,  who 
said,  "  Don't  be  troublesome,  child." 

How  grateful  I  was  when  Emma  answered  for  mo, 
"  She  doesn't  trouble  me  in  the  least ;  I  am  very  fond  of 
children." 

Indeed,  she  seemed  to  be  very  fond  of  everybody  and 
everything  —  all  except  Sally's  Dutch  cheese,  which,  as  I 
expected,  she  hardly  relished.  In  less  than  three  days 
she  was  beloved  by  ail  the  household ;  Billy  whispering  to 
me  confidentially  that  "  never  before  had  he  seen  any  one 
except  mother,  whom  he  would  like  to  marry." 

Saturday  afternoon  Carrie  and  Agnes  called  on  Emma, 
and  as  I  saw"  thorn  together  I  fancied  I  had  never  looked 
on  three  more  charming  faces.  They  appeared  mutually 
pleased  with  each  other,  too,  although  for  some  reason 
there  seemed  to  be  more  affinity  between  Emma  and  Ag 
nes.  Carrie  appeared  thoughtful  and  absent-minded 
which  made  Anna  joke  her  about  her  "lover,  Penoyer." 
As  she  was  about  leaving  the  room,  she  made  no  reply, 
but  after  she  w^as  gone,  Agnes  looked  searchingly  at 
Anna  and  said,  "  Is  it  possible,  Miss  Anna,  that  you  are 
eo  misip.kcn.  ?" 


13  G  RICE  COIINEK. 

"  How — why  ?  "  asked  Anna.  "Is  Penoyer  a  bad  man ? 
What  is  liis  occupation  ?  " 

"  His  occupation  is  well  enough,"  returned  Agnes.  "I 
would  not  think  less  of  him  for  that,  were  he  right  in 
other  respects.  However,  he  was  Carrie's  and  my  own 
music  teacher." 

"  Impossible,"  said  Anna,  but  at  that  moment  Carrie 
reuntered  the  room,  and,  together  with  Agnes,  soon  took 
her  leave. 

"  Penoyer  a  music  teacher,  after  all  his  anger  at  Lily 
Gordon,  for  suggesting  such  an  idea ! "  This  was  now 
the  theme  of  Juliet  and  Anna,  although  they  wondered 
what  there  was  so  bad  about  him — something,  evidently, 
from  Agnes'  manner,  and  for  many  days  they  puzzled 
their  brains  in  vain  to  solve  the  mystery. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

RICHARD   EVELYN  AND   HARLEY   ASHMORE. 

.  EMMA  had  not  long  been  with  us,  ere  her  fame  reached 
the  little  village  "  over  the  river,"  and  drew  from  thence 
many  calls,  both  from  gentlemen  and  ladies.  Among 
these  was  a  Mr.  Richard  Evelyn  and  his  sister,  both  of 
whom  had  the  honor  of  standing  on  the  topmost  round 
of  the  aristocratic  ladder  in  the  village.  Mr.  Evelyn,  who 
was  nearly  thirty  years,  of  age,  was  a  wealthy  lawyer,  and 
what  is  a  little  remarkable  for  that  craft,  (I  speak  from 
experience,)  to  an  unusual  degree  of  intelligence  and  pol 
ish  of  manners,  he  added  many  social  and  religious  quali 
ties.  Many  kind-hearted  mothers,  who  had  on  their  h.an ds 


RICHARD  EVELYN  AND  HAELEY  ASHMORE.  137 

good-for-nothing  daughters,  wondered  how  he  managed 
to  live  without  a  wife,  but  he  seemed  to  think  it  the  easi 
est  thing  in  nature,  for-,  since  the  death  of  his  parents,  his 
sister  Susan  had  acted  in  the  capacity  of  his  housekeeper. 

I  have  an  idea  that  grandmother,  whose  disposition 
was  slightly  spiced  with  a  love  for  match-making,  be 
thought  herself  how  admirably  Mr.  Evelyn  and  Emma 
were  suited  for  each  other ;  for,  after  his  calls  became  fre 
quent,  I  heard  her  many  times  slily  hint  of  the  possibiL 
ity  of  our  being  able  to  keep  Emma  in  town  always.  Shet 
probably,  did  not  think  so ;  for,  each  time  after  being 
teased,  she  repaired  to  her  room  and  read,  for  the  twen 
tieth  time,  some  ominous  looking  letters  which  she  had 
received  since  being  with  us. 

It  was  now  three  weeks  since  she  came,  and  each  day 
she  had  gained  in  health  and  strength.  Twice  had  she 
walked  to  the  woods,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Evelyn,  once 
to  the  school-house,  while  every  day  she  swung  under  the  , 
old  maple.  About  this  time  Agnes  began  to  think  of  re 
turning  home,  so  Juliet  and  Anna  determined  on  a  party 
in  honor  of  her  and  Emma.  It  was  a  bright  summer  af 
ternoon;  and,  for  a  wonder,  I  was  suffered  to  remain 
from  school,  although  I  received  numerous  charges  to 
keep  my  tongue  still,  and  was  again  reminded  of  that  ex 
cellent  old  proverb,  (the  composition  of  some  old  maid,  I 
know,)  "  children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard ; "  so, 
seated  in  a  corner,  ray  hand  pressed  closely  over  my 
mouth,  the  better  to  guard  against  contingencies,  I  looked 
on  and  thought,  with  ineffable  satisfaction,  how  much 
handsomer  Cousin  Emma  Avas  than  any  one  else,  although 
I  could  not  help  acknowledging  that  Carrie  never  looked 
more  beautiful  than  she  did  that  afternoon,  in  a  neatly- 
fitting  white  muslin,  with  a  few  rose-buds  nestling  in  her 
long,  glossy  curls. 


138  EICE  COKNEB. 

Matters  were  going  on  swimmingly,  and  I  had  three 
times  ventured  a  remark,  when  Anna,  who  was  sitting 
near  the  window,  exclaimed,  "  Look  here,  girls,  did  yon 
ever  see  a  finer  looking  gentleman?"  at  the  same  time 
calling  their  attention  to  a  stranger  in  the  street.  Emma 
looked,  too,  and  the  bright  flush  which  suffused  her  cheek 
made  me  associate  the  gentleman  with  the  letters  she  had 
received,  and  I  was  not  surprised  when  he  entered  our 
yard  and  knocked  at  our  door.  Juliet  arose  to  answer 
his  summons,  but  Emma  prevented  her,  saying,  "  Suffer 
me  to  go,  will  you  ?  " 

She  was  gone  some  time,  and  when  she  returned  was 
accompanied  by  the  stranger,  whom  she  introduced  as 
Mr.  Ashmore.  I  surveyed  him  with  childish  curiosity, 
and  drew  two  very  satisfactory  breaths  when  I  saw  that 
he  was  wholly  unlike  Monsieur  Penoyer.  He  was  a  very 
fine  looking  man,  but  I  did  not  exactly  like  the  expression 
of  his  face.  It  was  hardly  open  enough  to  suit  me,  and  I 
noticed  that  he  never  looked  you  directly  in  the  eye.  In 
five  minutes  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  not 
half  so  good  a  man  as  Mr.  Evelyn.  I  was  in  great  dan 
ger,  however,  of  changing  my  mind,  when  I  saw  how 
fondly  his  dark  eye  rested  on  Emma,  and  how  delighted- 
he  seemed  to  be  at  her  improved  health ;  and  when  he, 
without  any  apparent  exertion,  kept  the  whole  company 
entertained,  I  was  charmed,  and  did  not  blame  Emma  for 
liking  him.  Anna's  doctor  was  nothing  to  him,  and  I 
even  fancied  that  he  would  dare  to  go  all  alone  to  the  old 
mine ! 

Suddenly  he  faced  about,  and  espying  me  in  the  corner, 
he  said,  "Here  is  a  little  lady  I've  not  seen.  "Will  some 
one  introduce  me  ?  " 

With  the  utmost  gravity,  Anna  said,  "  It  is  my  sister, 
little  crazy  Jane." 


RICHARD    EVELYN    AND    HARLEY    ASIIMORE.  139 

I  glanced  quickly  at  him  to  sec  how  ho  would  receive 
the  intelligence,  and  when,  looking  inquiringly  first  at  mo 
and  then  at  Emma,  he  said,  "  Is  it  really  so  ?  what  a 
pity !  "  the  die  was  cast — I  never  liked  him  ao-ain.  That 

i         »'  O 

night  in  my  little  low  bed,  long  after  Lizzie  was  asleep,  I 
wept  bitterly,  wondering  what  made  Anna  so  unkind,  and 
why  people  called  me  crazy.  I  knew  I  looked  like  other 
children,  and  I  thought  I  acted  like  them,  too;  unless, 
indeed,  I  climbed  more  trees,  tore  more  dresses,  and  burst 
off  more  hooks. 

But  to  return  to  the  party.  After  a  time  I  thought 
that  Mr.  Ashmore's  eyes  went  over  admiringly  to  Carrie 
more  frequently  than  was  necessary,  and  for  once  I  re 
gretted  that  she  was  so  pretty.  Ere  long,  Mr.  Ashmore, 
too,  went  over,  and  immediately  there  ensued  between 
himself  and  Carrie  a  lively  conversation,  in  which  she 
adroitly  managed  to  let  him  know  that  she  had  been 
three  years  at  school  in  Albany.  Tho  next  thing  that  I 
saw  was  that  he  took  from  her  curls  a  rose-bud  and  ap 
propriated  it  to  his  button  hole.  I  glanced  at  Emma  to 
see  how  she  was  aifected,  but  her  face  was  perfectly  calm, 
and  wore  the  old  sweet  smile.  When  the  young  ladies 
were  about  leaving,  I  was  greatly  shocked  to  see  Mr. 
Ashmore  offer  to  accompany  Carrie  and  Agnes  home. 

After  they  were  gone,  grandmother  said,  "  Emma,  if 
I's  you,  I'd  put  a  stop  to  that  chap's  fiirtin'  so  with  Car'- 
line  Howard." 

Emma  laughed  gaily,  as  she  replied,  "  Oh,  grandma,  I 
can  trust  Harley ;  I  have  been  sick  so  long  that  he  has 
the  privilege  of  walking  or  riding  with  anybody  he 
pleases." 

Grandmothei  shook  her  head,  saying,  "It  wasn't  so 
with  her  and  cur  poor  grandfather ;"  then  I  fell  into  a  fit 
of  musing  as  to  whether  grandma  was  ever  young,  and  if 


140  E1CE  COEXER. 

she  ever  fixed  her  hair  before  the  glass,  as  Anna  did  when 
she  expected  the  doctor !  In  the  midst  of  my  reverie, 
Mr.  Ashmore  returned,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  eve 
ning  devoted  himself  so  entirely  to  Emma  that  I  forgave 
him  for  going  home  with  Carrie.  Next  day,  however, 
he  found  the  walk  to  Capt.  Howard's  a  very  convenient 
one,  staying  ,a  long  time,  too.  The  next  day  it  was  the 
same,  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  until  I  fancied  that  even 
Emma  began  to  be  anxious. 

Grandma  was  highly  indignant,  and  Sally  declared, 
"  that,  as  true  as  she  lived  and  breathed,  if  Mike  should 
serve  her  so,  he'd  catch  it."  About  this  time,  Agnes 
went  home.  The  evening  before  she  left,  she  spent  at 
our  house  with  Emma,  of  whom  she  seemed  to  be  very 
fond.  Carrie  and  Ashmore  were,  as  usual,  out  riding  or 
walking,  and  the  conversation  naturally  turned  upon  them. 
At  last,  Anna,  whose  curiosity  was  still  on  the  alert,  to 
know  something  of  Penoyer,  asked  Agnes  of  him.  I  will 
repeat,  in  substance,  what  Agnes^said. 

It  seems  that  for  many  years  Pjhoyer  had  been  a  teacher  - 
of  music  in  Albany.  Agnes  was  one  of  his  pupils,  and 
while  teaching  her  music  he  thought  proper  to  fall  over 
whelmingly  in  love  with  her.  This,  for  a  time,  she  did 
not  notice ;  but  when  his  attentions  became  so  pointed  as 
to  become  a  subject  of  remark,  she  very  coolly  tried  to 
make  him  understand  his  position.  He  persevered,  how 
ever,  until  he  became  exceedingly  impudent  and  annoying. 

About  this  time  there  came  well  authenticated  stories 
of  his  being  not  only  a  professed  gambler,  but  also  very 
dissipated  in  his  habits.  To  this  last  charge  Agnes  could 
testify,  as  his  breath  had  frequently  betrayed  him.  He 
was  accordingly  dismissed.  Still  he  perseveringly  pur 
sued  her,  always  managing,  if  possible,  to  get  near  her  in 
all  public  places,  and  troubling  her  in  various  ways. 


RICHARD  EVELYN  AND  PARLEY  ASHMOKE.  141 

At  last  Agnes  heard  that  he  was  showing  among  her 
acquaintances  two  notes  bearing  her  signature.  The  con 
tents  of  these  notes  he  covered  with  his  hand,  exposing  to 
view  only  her  name.  She  had  twice  written,  requesting 
him  to  purchase  some  new  piece  of  music,  and  it  was  these 
messages  which  he  was  now  showing,  insinuating  that 
Agnes  thought  favorably  of  him,  but  was  opposed  by  hei 
father.  The  consequence  of  this  was,  that  the  next  time 
Agnes'  brother  met  Penoyer  in  the  street,  he  gave  him  a 
Bound  caning,  ordering  him,  under  pain  of  a  worse  flog 
ging,  never  again  to  mention  his  sister's  name.  This  he 
was  probably  more  willing  to  do,  as  he  had  already  con 
ceived  a  great  liking  for  Carrie,  who  was  silly  enough  to 
be  pleased  with  and  suffer  his  attentions. 

"I  wonder,  though,  that  Carrie  allowed  him  to  visit 
her,"  said  Agnes,  "  but  then  I  believe  she  is  under  some 
obligations  to  him,  and  dare  not  refuse/ when  he  asked 
permission  to  come." 

If  Agnes  knew  what  these  obligations  were,  she  did  not 
tell,  and  grandmother,  who,  during  the  narration  had  knit 
with  unwonted  speed,  making  her  needles  rattle  again, 
said,  "  It's  plain  to  me  that  Car'line  let  him  come  to  make 
folks  think  she  had  got  a  city  beau." 

"  Quite  likely, "  returned  Agnes ;  "  Carrie  is  a  sad  flirt, 
but  I  think,  at  least,  that  she  should  not  interfere  with  other 
people's  rights." 

Here  my  eye  followed  hers  to  Emma,  who,  I  thought, 
was  looking  a  little  paler.  Just  then  Carrie  and  Ashmore 
came  in,  and  the  latter  throwing  himself  upon  the  sofa  by 
the  side  of  Emma,  took  her  hand,  caressingly,  saying, 
"  How  are  you  to-night,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,"  was  her  quiet  reply,  and  soon  after,  under 
pretense  of  moving  from  the  window,  she  took  a  seat 
across  the  rooin.  That  night  Mr.  Ashmore  accompanied 


142  RICE   CORNEL, 


Carrie  and  Agnes  home,  and  it  w*s  at  a  much  later  hour 
than  usual,  that  old  Rover  first  growled  and  then  whined 
as  he  recognized  our  visitor. 

The  next  morning  Emma  was  suffering  from  a  severe 
headache,  which  prevented  her  from  appearing  at  break 
fast.  Mr.  Ashmore  seemed  somewhat  disturbed,  and  made 
many  anxious  inquiries  about  her.  At  dinner  time  she 
was  well  enough  to  come,  and  the  extreme  kindness  of 
Mr.  Ashmore's  manner  called  a  deep  glow  to  her  cheek. 
After  dinner,  however,  he  departed  for  a  walk,  taking  his 
accustomed  road  toward  Capt.  Howard's. 

When  I  returned  from  school  he  was  still  absent,  and  as 
Emma  was  quite  well,  she  asked  me  to  accompany  her  to 
my  favorite  resort,  the  old  rock  beneath  the  grape-vine. 
We  were  soon  there,  and  for  a  long  time  we  sat  watching 
the  shadows  as  they  came  and  went  upon  the  bright  green 
grass,  and  listening  to  the  music  of  the  brook,  which 
seemed  to  me  to  sing  more  sadly  than  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Suddenly  our  ears  were  arrested  by  the  sound  of  voices, 
which  we  knew  belonged  to  Mr.  Ashmore  and  Carrie. 
They  were  standing  near  us,  just  behind  a  clump  of  alders, 
and  Carrie,  in  reply  to  something  Mr.  Ashmore  had  said, 
answered,  "  Oh,  you  can't  be  in  earnest,  for  you  have  only 
known  me  ten  days,  and  besides  that,  what  have  you  done 
with  your  pale,  sick  lady  ?  " 

Instantly  I  started  up,  clinching  my  fist  in  imitation  of 
brother  Billy  when  he  was  angry,  but  Cousin  Emma's  arm 
was  thrown  convulsively  around  me,  as  drawing  me  closely 
to  her  side,  she  whispered,  "  keep  quiet." 

I  did  keep  quiet,  and  listened  while  Mr.  Ashmore  re 
plied,  "  I  entertain  for  Miss  Rushton  the  highest  esteem, 
for  I  know  she  possesses  many  excellent  qualities.  Once 
I  thought  I  loved  her,  (how  tightly  Emma  held  me,)  but 
she  has  been  sick  a  long  time,  and  somehow  I  cannot 


KICHARD  EVELYN  AND  IIAKLEY  ASHMOEE.  143 

marry  an  invalid.  Whether  she  ever  gets  well  is  doubt* 
ful,  and  even  if  she  does,  after  having  seen  you,  she  can 
be  nothing  to  me.  And  yet  I  like  her,  and  when  I  am 
alone  with  her  I  almost  fancy  I  love  her,  but  one  look  at 
your  sparkling,  healthy  face  drives  her  from  my  mind  — " 

The  rest  of  what  he  said  I  could  not  hear,  neither  did  I 
understand  Carrie's  answer,  but  his  next  words  were  dis 
tinct,  "  My  dear  Carrie  forever." 

I  know  the  brook  stopped  running,  or  at  least  I  did  not 
hear  it.  The  sun  went  down;  the  birds  went  to  rest; 
Mr.  Ashmore  and  Carrie  went  home  ;  and  still  I  sat  there 
by  the  side  of  Emma,  who  had  lain  her  head  in  my  lap, 
and  was  so  still  and  motionless  that  the  dread  fear  came 
over  me  that  she  might  be  dead.  I  attempted  to  lift  her 
up,  saying,  "  Cousin  Emma,  speak  to  me,  won't  you  ?  " 
but  she  made  me  no  answer,  and  another  ten  minutes  went 
by.  By  this  time  the  stars  had  come  out  and  were  lock 
ing  quietly  down  upon  us.  The  waters  of  the  mill-di^m 
chanted  mournfully,  and  in  my  disordered',  imagination, 
fantastic  images  danced  before  the  entrance  of  the  old 
mine.  Half  crying  with  fear,  I  again  laid  my  hand  on 
Emma's  head.  Her  hair  was  wet  with  the  heavy  n;ght 
dews,  and  my  eyes  were  wet  with  something  else,  as  I 
said,  "  Oh,  Emma,  speak  to  me,  for  I  am  afraid  and  \r avit 
to  go  home." 

This  roused  her,  and  lifting  up  her  head  I  caught  a 
glimse  of  a  face  of  so  startling  whiteness,  that  thro'ATiig 
my  arms  around  her  neck,  I  cried, "  Oh,  Emma,  dear  Em 
ma,  don't  look  so.  I  love  you  a  great  deal  better  tLan  I 
do  Carrie  Howard,  and  so  I  am  sure  does  Mr.  Evelyn." 

I  don't  know  how  I  chanced  to  think  of  Mr.  Evelyn, 
but  he  recurred  to  me  naturally  enough.  All  thoughts 
of  him,  however,  were  soon  driven  from  my  mind,  by  the 


144  RICE   CORNER. 

sound  of  Emma's  voice,  as  she  said,  "  Mollie,  darling.,  can 
you  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

I  didn't  think  I  could,  as  I  never  had  been  entrusted 
with  one,  so  I  advised  her  to  give  it  to  Anna,  who  was 
very  fond  of  them.  But  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  you  can  do 
it,  Mollie.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  tell  them  at 
home  what  you  have  seen  or  heard." 

I  promised,  and  then  in  my  joy  at  owning  a  secret,  I  forgot 
the  little  figures  which  waltzed  back  and  forth  before  the 
old  mine,  I  forgot  the  woods  through  which  wre  passedj 
nor  was  the  silence  broken  until  we  reached  the  lane 
Then  I  said,  "  What  shall  we  tell  the  folks  when  they  ask 
where  we  have  been  ?  " 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  answered  Emma. 

As  we  drew  near  the  house,  we  met  grandmother,  Ju 
liet,  Anna  and  Sally,  all  armed  and  equipped  for  a  general 
hunt.  We  were  immediately  assailed  with  a  score  of 
questions  as  to  what  had  kept  us  so  long.  I  looked  to 
Emma  for  the  answer,  at  the  same  time  keeping  my  hand 
tightly  over  my  mouth  for  fear  I  should  tell. 

"  We  found  more  things  of  interest  than  we  expected," 
said  Emma,  consequently  tarried  longer  than  we  should 
otherwise  have  done." 

"  Why,  how  hoarse  you  be,"  said  grandmother,  while 
Sally  continued,  "  Starlight  is  a  mighty  queer  time  to  see 
things  in." 

"  Some  things  look  better  by  starlight,"  answered  Em* 
ma;  /'but  we  staid  longer  than  we  ought  to,  for  I  have 
got  a  severe  headache  and  must  go  immediately  to  bed." 

"Ha\esome  tea  first,"  said  grandmother,  "and  some 
strawberries  and  cream,"  repeated  Sally ;  but  Emma  de 
clined  both  and  went  at  once  to  her  room. 

Mr.  Ashmore  did  not  come  home  until  late  that  night, 
tor  I  was  awake  and  heard  him  stumbling  up  stairs  in  the 


EICHAKD  EVELYN  AND  HAKLEY  ASHMOEE.  145 

dark.  I  remember,  too,  of -having  experienced  the  very 
benevolent  wish  that  he  would  break  his  neck  !  As  I  ex 
pected,  Emma  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  the  break 
fast  table,  but  about  ten  she  came  clown  to  the  parlor  and 
asked  to  see  Mr.  Ashmore  alone.  Of  what  occurred  du 
ring  that  interval  I  never  knew,  except  that  at  its  close" 
cousin  looked  very  white,  and  Mr.  Ashmore  very  black, 
notwithstanding  which  he  soon  took  his  accustomed  walk 
to  Capt.  Howard's.  He  was  gone  about  three  hours,  arid 
on  his  return  announced  his  intention  of  going  to  Boston 
in  the  afternoon  train.  No  one  opposed  him,  for  all  were 
glad  to  have  him  go. 

Just  before  he  left,  grandmother,  who  knew  all  was  not 
right,  said  to  him, — "  Young  man,  I  wish  you  well ;  but 
mind  what  I  say,  you'll  get  your  pay  yet  for  the  capers 
you've  cut  here." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  he  returned,  with  much 
more  emphasis  on  madam  than  was  at  all  necessary,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  but  I  think  she  has  cut  the  capers,  at 
least  she  dismissed  me  of  her  own  accord." 

I  thought  of  what  I  had  heard,  but  'twas  a  secret,  so  I 
kept  it  safely,  although  I  almost  bit  my  tongue  off  in  my 
zealous  efforts.  After  Ashmore  was  gone,  Emma,  who 
had  taken  a  violent  cold  the  evening  before,  took  her  bed, 
and  was  slightly  ill  for  nearly  a  week.  Almost  every  day 
Mr.  Evelyn  called  to  see  how  she  was,  always  bringing 
her  a  fresh  bouquet  of  flowers.  On  Thursday,  Carrie 
called,  bringing  Emma  some  ice  cream  which  Aunt  Eu 
nice  had  made.  She  did  not  ask  to  see  her,  but  before 
she  left  she  asked  Anna  if  she  did  not  wish  to  buy  her  old 
piano. 

"  What  will  you  do  without  it  ?  "  asked  Anna. 

"  Oh,"  said  Carrie,  "  I  cannot  use  two.  I  have  got  a 
new  one." 

10 


146  KICE    CORNEU. 

The  stocking  dropped  from  grandmother's  hand  as  sha 
exclaimed — "  What  is  the  world  a  comin'  to  !  Got  two 
planners !  Where'd  you  get  'em  ?  " 

"  My  new  one  was  a  present,  and  came  from  Boston," 
answered  Carrie,  with  the  utmost  sang  froid. 

"  You  don't  say  Ashmore  sent  it  to  you ! — how  much 
did  it  cost  ?  "  asked  grandma. 

"  Mr.  Ashmore  wrote  that  it  cost  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars,"  was  Carrie's  reply. 

Grandmother  wTas  perfectly  horror  stricken;  but  de 
sirous  of  making  Carrie  feel  as  comfortable  as  possible,  she 
said,  "  Sposin'  somebody  should  tell  him  about  Penoyer  ?  " 

For  an  instant  Carrie  turned  pale,  as  she  said  quickly, 
"  What  does  any  one  know  about  him  to  tell  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal — more  than  you  think  they  do — yes,  a 
great  deal,"  was  grandma's  answer. 

After  that,  Carrie  came  very  frequently  to  see  us,  al 
ways  bringing  something  nice  for  Emma  or  grandma  ! 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Evelyn's  visits  continued,  and  when  at 
last  Emma  could  see  him,  I  was  sure  that  she  received 
him  more  kindly  than  she  ever  had  before.  "That'll  go 
yet,"  was  grandma's  prediction.  But  her  scheming  wa? 
cut  short  by  a  letter  from  Emma's  father,  requesting  her 
immediate  return.  Mr.  Evelyn,  who  found  he  had  busi 
ness  which  required  his  presence  in  Worcester,  was  to 
accompany  her  thus  far.  It  was  a  sad  day  when  she  left 
up,  for  she  was  a  universal  favorite.  Sally  cried,  I  cried, 
and  Bill  either  cried  or  made  believe,  for  he  very  indus 
triously  wiped  his  eyes  and  nasal  organ  on  his  shirt  sleeves  ; 
besides  that,  things  went  on  wrong  side  up  generally. 
Grandma  was  cross — Sally  was  cross — and  the  school 
teacher  was  cross ;  the  bucket  fell  into  the  well,  and  the 
cows  got  into  the  corn.  I  got  called  up  at  school  and  set 
with  some  hateful  boys,  ore  of  whom  amused  himself  by 


AND  HAELEY  ASHMOKE.  147 

pricking  me  with  a  pin,  and  when,  in  self-defense,  I  gave 
him  a  good  pinch,  he  actually  yelled  out — "  She  keeps  a 
pinchin'  me !  "  On  the  whole,  'twas  a  dreadful  day,  and 
when  at  night  I  threw  myself  exhausted  upon  my  little 
bed,  I  cried  myself  to  sleep,  thinking  of  Cousin  Emma  and 
wishing  she  would  come  back. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MIKE    AND     SALLY. 

I  HAVE  spoken  of  Sally,  but  have  said  nothing  of  Mike, 
whom,  of  all  my  father's  hired  men,  I  liked  the  best.  He 
it  was  who  made  the  best  cornstalk  fiddles,  and  whit 
tled  out  the  shrillest  whistles  with  which  to  drive  grand 
ma  "ravin'  distracted."  He,  too,  it  was  who,  on  cold 
winter  mornings,  carried  Lizzie  to  school  in  his  arms,  ma-* 
king  me  forget  how  my  fingers  ached,  by  telling  some 
exploit  of  his  school  clays. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  Sally  liked  him,  and  I  always  had  an 
.idea  how  that  liking  would  end,  but  did  not  think  it  would 
be  so  soon.  Consequently,  I  suspected  nothing  when  Sal 
ly's  white  dress  was  bleached  on  the  grass  in  the  clothes' 
yard,  for  nearly  a  week.  One  day  Billy  caine  to  me  with 
a  face  full  of  wonder,  saying  he  had  just  overheard  Mike 
tell  one  of  the  men  that  he  and  Sally  were  going  to  be 
married  in  a  few  weeks. 

I  knew  now  what  all  that  bleaching  was  for,  and  why 
Sally  bought  so  much  cotton  lace  of  pedlars.  I  was  in 
ecstacies,  too,  for  I  had  never  seen  any  one  married,  but 
regretted  the  circumstance,  whatever  it  might  have  been. 


148  KICE  CORNER. 

which  prevented  me  from  being  present  at  mother's  mar 
riage.  Like  many  other  children,  I  had  been  deceived 
into  the  belief  that  the  marriage  ceremony  consisted 
mainly  in  leaping  the  broomstick,  and,  by  myself,  I  had 
frequently  tried  the  experiment,  delighted  to  find  that  I 
could  jump  it  at  almost  any  distance  from  the  ground ; 
but  I  had  some  misgivings  as  to  Sally's  ability  to  clear 
the  stick,  for  she  was  rather  clumsy ;  however,  I  should 
see  the  fun,  for  they  were  to  be  married  at  our  house. 

A  week  before  the  tune  appointed,  mother  was  taken 
very  ill,  which  made  it  necessary  that  the  wedding  should 
be  postponed,  or  take  place  somewhere  else.  To  the  first, 

Mike  would  not  hear,  and  as  good  old  Parson   S , 

whose  sermons  were  never  more  than   two  hours  lon<>\ 

O  * 

came  regularly  every  Sunday  night  to  preach  in  the  school- 
house,  Mike  proposed  that  they  be  married  there.  Sally 
did  not  like  this  exactly,  but  grandmother,  who  now 
ruled  the  household,  said  it  was  just  the  thing,  and  ac 
cordingly  it  took  place  there. 

The  house  was  filled  full,  and  those  who  could  not  ob 
tain  seats  took  their  station  near  the  windows.  Our  party 
was  early,  but  I  was  three  times  compelled  to  relinquish 
my  seat  in  favor  of  more  distinguished  persons,  and  I  be 
gan  to  think  that  if  any  one  was  obliged  to  go  home  for 
want  of  room,  it  would  be  me ;  but  I  resolutely  determined 
not  to  go.  I'd  climb  the  chestnut  tree  first !  At  last  I 
was  squeezed  on  a  high  desk  between  two  old  ladies, 
wearing  two  old  black  bonnets,  their  breath  sufficiently 
tinctured  with  tobacco  smoke  to  be  very  disagreeable  to 
me,  whose  olfactories  chanced  to  be  rather  aristocratic 
tban  otherwise. 

To  my  horror,  Father  S concluded  to  give  us  the 

sermon  before  he  did  the  bride.  He  was  afraid  some  of 
his  audience  would  leave.  Accordingly  there  ensued  a 


MIKE  AND  SALLY.  149 

prayer  half  an  hour  long,  after  which  eight  verses  of  a 
long  metre  psalm  were  sung  to  the  tune  of  Windham, 
By  this  time  I  gave  a  slight  sign  to  the  two  old  ladies 
that  I  would  like  to  move,  but  they  merely  shook  their 
two  black  bonnets  at  me,  telling  me,  in  fierce  whispers, 
that  "  I  must  n't  stir  in  meetin'."  Must  n't  stir !  I  won 
der  how  I  could  stir,  squeezed  in  as  I  was,  unless  they 
chose  to  let  me.  So  I  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  straight 
ahead  at  a  point  where  the  tips  of  my  red  shoes  were  vis 
ible,  for  my  feet  were  sticking  straight  out. 

All  at  once,  my  attention  was  drawn  to  a  spider  on  the 
wall,  who  was  laying  a  net  for  a  fly,  and  in  watching  his 

maneuvers  I  forgot  the  lapse  of  time,  until  Father  S 

had  passed  his  sixthly  and  seventhly,  and  was  driving  fu 
riously  away  at  the  eighthly.  By  this  time  the  spider 
had  caught  the  fly,  whose  cries  sounded  to  me  like  the 
waters  of  the  saw-mill ;  the  tips  of  my  red  shoes  looked 
like  the  red  berries  which  grew  near  the  mine  ;  the  two 
old  ladies  at  my  side  were  transformed  into  two  tall  black 
walnut  trees,  while  I  seemed  to  be  sliding  down  hill. 

At  this  juncture,  one  of  the  old  ladies  moved  away 
from  me  a  foot  at  least,  (she  could  have  done  so  before, 
had  she  chosen  to,)  and  I  was  precipitated  off  from  the 
bench,  striking  my  head  on  the  sharp  corner  of  a  seat  be 
low.  It  was  a  dreadful  blow  which  I  received,  making 
the  blood  gush  from  my  nostrils.  My  loud  screams 
brought  matters  to  a  focus,  and  the  sermon  to  an  end. 
My  grandmother  and  one  of  the  old  ladies  took  me  and 
the  water  pail  out  doors,  where  I  was  literally  deluged ; 
at  the  same  time  they  called  me  "  Poor  girl !  Poor  Mol- 
lie!  Little  dear,  &c." 

But  while  they  w  ^re  attending  to  my  bumped  head, 
Mike  and  Sally  were  carried,  and  I  didn't  see  it  after  all! 
XTwas  too  bad! 


]  50  KICE  COKNEK. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    BKIDE. 

AFTEB  Sally's  marriage,  there  occurred  at  our  Louse 
an  interval  of  quiet,  enlivened  occasionally  by  letters  from 
Cousin  Emma,  whose  health  was  not  as  much  improved 
by  her  visit  to  the  country  as  she  had  at  first  hoped  it 
would  be ;  consequently,  she  proposed  spending  the  win 
ter  south.  Meantime,  from  Boston  letters  came  fre 
quently  to  Carrie  Howard,  and  as  the  autumn  advanced, 
things  within  and  about  her  father's  house  foretold  some 
unusual  event.  Two  dress-makers  were  hired  from  the 
village,  and  it  was  stated,  on  good  authority,  that  among 
Carrie's  wardrobe  was  a  white  satin  and  an  elegantly  em 
broidered  merino  traveling  dress. 

ISTumerous  were  the  surmises  of  Juliet  and  Anna  as 
to  who  and  how  many  would  be  invited  to  the  wed 
ding.  All  misgivings  concerning  themselves  were  happily 
brought  to  an  end  a  week  before  the  time,  for  there  came 
to  our  house  handsome  cards  of  invitation  for  Juliet  and 
Anna,  and — I  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes — there  was 
one  for  me  too.  For  this  I  was  indebted  to  Aunt  Eunice, 
who  had  heard  of  and  commiserated  my  misfortunes  at 
Sally's  wedding. 

I  was  sorry  that  my  invitation  came  so  soon,  for  I  had 
but  little  hope  that  the  time  would  ever  come.  It  did, 
however,  and  so  did  Mr.  Ashmore  and  Agnes.  As  soon 
as  dinner  was  over,  I  commenced  my  toilet,  although  the 
wedding  was  not  to  take  place  until  eight  that  evening ; 
but  then  I  believed,  as  I  do  now,  in  being  ready  in  season. 
Oh,  how  slowly  the  hours  passed,  and  at  last  in  perfect 
despair  I  watched  my  opportonitj  to  set  the  clock  for- 


THE  BRIDE.  151 

ward  when  no  one  saw  me.  For  this  purpose  I  put  the 
footstool  in  a  chair,  and  mounting,  was  about  to  move  the 
long  hand,  when — 

But  I  always  was  the  most  unfortunate  of  mortals,  so 
'twas  no  wonder  that  at  this  point  the  chair  slipped,  the  stool 
slipped,  and  I  slipped.  I  caught  at  the  clock  to  save  myself; 
consequently  both  clock  and  I  came  to  the  floor  with  a  ter 
rible  crash.  My  first  thought  was  for  the  hooks  and  eyes, 
which,  undoubtedly,  were  scattered  with  the  fragments  of 
the  clock,  but  fortunately  every  hook  was  in  its  place, 
and  only  one  eye  was  straightened.  I  draw  a  vail  over 
the  scolding  which  I  got,  and  the  numerous  threats  that 
I  should  stay  at  home. 

As  the  clock  was  broken  we  had  no  means  for  judging 
of  the  time,  and  thus  we  were  among  the  first  who  ar 
rived  at  Capt.  Howard's.  This  gave  Juliet  and  Anna  an 
opportunity  of  telling  Agnes  of  my  mishap.  She  laughed 
heartily,  and  then  immediately  changing  the  subject,  she 
inquired  after  Cousin  Emma,  and  when  we  had  heard 
from  her.  After  replying  to  these  questions,  Anna  asked 
Agnes  about  Penoyer,  and  when  she  had  seen  him. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Agnes,  "  but  I  have  a  suspi 
cion  that  he  stopped  yesterday  at  the  depot  when  I  did. 
I  may  have  been  mistaken,  for  I  was  looking  after  my 
baggage  and  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  If  it  were 
he,  his  presence  bodes  no  good." 

"  Have  you  told  Carrie  ?  "  asked  Juliet. 

"  No,  I  have  not.  She  seems  so  nervous  whenever  he 
is  mentioned,"  was  Agnes'  reply. 

I  thought  of  the  obligations  once  referred  to  by  Ag 
nes,  and  felt  that  I  should  breathe  more  freely  when  Carrie 
really  was  married.  Other  guests  now  began  to  arrive,  and 
we  who  had  fixed  long  enough  before  the  looking  glass, 
repaired  to  the  parlor  below.  Bill,  who  saw  Sally  married, 
G* 


152  RICE  CORNER. 

had  convinced  me  that  the  story  of  the  broomstick  was  a 
falsehood,  so  I  was  prepared  for  its  absence,  but  I  won 
dered  then,  not  more  than  I  do  IIOAV,  why  grown  up  peo 
ple  should  n't  be  whipped  for  telling  untruths  to  children, 
as  well  as  children  for  telling  untruths  to  grown  up 
people. 

The  parlor  was  now  rapidly  filling,  and  I  wras  in  great 
danger  of  being  thrust  into  the  corner,  where  I  could  see 
nothing,  when  Aunt  Eunice  very  benevolently  drew  me 
near  her,  saying,  I  should  see,  if  no  one  else  did.  At  last 
Mr.  Ashmore  arid  Carrie  came.  An2a  can  tell  you  ex 
actly  what  she  wore,  but  I  cannot.  I  only  know  that 
she  looked  most  beautifully,  though  I  have  a  vague  rec 
ollection  of  fancying  that  in  the  making  of  her  dress, 
the  sleeves  were  forgotten  entirely,  and  the  neck  very 
nearly  so. 

The  marriage  ceremony  commenced,  and  I  listened 
breathlessly,  but  this  did  not  prevent  me  from  hearing 
some  one  enter  the  house  by  the  kitchen  door.  Aunt 
Eunice  heard  it,  too,  and  when  the  minister  began  to  say 
something  about  Mrs,  Ashmore,  she  arose  and  went  out. 
Something  had  just  commenced,  I  think  they  called  them 
congratulations,  when  the  crowd  around  the  door  began 
to  huddle  together  in  order  to  make  room  for  some  per 
son  to  enter.  I  looked  up  and  saw  Penoyer,  his  glitter 
ing  teeth  now  partially  disclosed,  looking  a  very  little 
fiendish,  I  thought.  Carrie  saw  him,  too,  and  instantly 
turned  as  white  as  the  satin  dress  she  wore,  while  Agnes, 
who  seemed  to  have  some  suspicion  of  his  errand,  exclaimed, 
"  impudent  scoundrel ! "  at  the  same  time  advancing 
forward,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

He  shook  it  oft'  lightly,  saying,  "Pardonnez  moi,  ma 
chere ;  I've  no  come  to  trouble  you."  Then  turning  to 


THE    liltlDE.  153 

Ashmore  he  said,  pointing  to  Carrie,  "  She  be  your  wife, 
I  take  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Ashmore  haughtily.  "  Have  you 
any  objections  ?  If  so  they  have  come  too  late." 

"  Not  von,  not  in  the  least,  no  sar,"  said  the  French 
man,  bowing  nearly  to  the  floor.  "  It  give  me  one  grand 
plaisir ;  so  now  you  will  please  settle  von  leetle  bill  I  have 
against  her ;  "  at  the  same  time  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  sheet  of  half-worn  paper. 

Carrie,  who  was  leaning  heavily  against  Mr.  Ashmore, 
instantly  sprang  forward  and  endeavored  to  snatch  the 
paper,  saying  half  imploringly,  "Don't,  Penoyer,  you 
know  my  father  will  pay  it." 

But  Penoyer  passed  it  to  Mr.  Ashmore,  while  Capt. 
Howard,  coming  forward,  said,  "  Pay  what  ?  What  is  all 
this  about ! " 

"Only  a  trifle,"  said  Penoyer;  "just  a  bill  for  giving 
your  daughter  musique  lessons  three  years  in  Albany." 

"  You  give  my  daughter  music  lessons  ?  "  demanded 
Capt.  Howard. 

"  Oui,  Monsieur,  I  do  that  same  thing,"  answered 
Penoyer. 

"  Oh,  Carrie,  Carrie,"  said  Capt.  Howard,  in  his  sur 
prise,  forgetting  the  time  and  place,  "  why  did  you  tell 
me  that  your  knowledge  of  music  you  acquired  yourself, 
with  the  assistance  of  your  cousin,  and  a  little  help  from 
her  music  teacher,  and  why,  when  this  man  was  here  a 
few  months  ago,  did  you  not  tell  me  he  was  your  mus»ie 
teacher  and  had  not  been  paid." 

Bursting  into  tears,  Carrie  answered,  "  Forgive  me, 
father,  but  he  said  he  had  no  bill  against  me ;  he  made  no 
charge." 

"But  she  gave  me  von  big,  large  mitten,"  said  the 
Frenchman,  "  when  she  see  this  man,  who  has  more 


154  EICE   CORNE1J. 

1'argent ;  but  no  difference,  no  difference,  sar,  this  gen. 
tleman,"  bowing  toward  Ashmore,  "  parfaitement  delight 
ed  to  pay  it." 

Whether  he  were  delighted  or  not,  he  did  pay  it,  for 
drawing  from  his  pocket  his  purse,  while  his  large  black 
eyes  emitted  gleams  of  fire,  he  counted  out  the  required 
amount,  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars ;  then  con 
fronting  Penoyer,  he  said,  fiercely,  "  Give  me  a  receipt  for 
this,  instantly,  after  which  I  will  take  it  upon  me  to  show 
you  the  door." 

"  Certainement,  certainement,  all  I  want  is  my  1'argent," 
said  Penoyer. 

The  money  was  paid,  the  receipt  given,  and  then,  as 
Penoyer  hesitated  a  moment,  Ashmore  said,  "  Are  you 
waiting  to  be  helped  out,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  Monsieur,  si  vous  plait,  I  have  tree  letters  from 
Madame,  which  will  give  you  one  grande  satisfaction  to 
read."  Then  tossing  toward  Ashmore  the  letters,  with  a 
malicious  smile  he  left  the  house. 

Poor  Carrie !  When  sure  that  he  was  gone,  she  fainted 
away  and  was  carried  from  the  room.  At  supper,  how 
ever,  she  made  her  appearance,  and  after  that  was  over, 
the  guests,  unopposed,  left  en  masse. 

What  effect  Penoyer's  disclosures  had  on  Ashmore  we 
never  exactly  knew,  but  when,  a  few  days  before  the 
young  couple  left  home,  they  called  at  our  house,  we  all 
fancied  that  Carrie  was  looking  more  thoughtful  than  usual, 
while  a  cloud  seemed  to  be  resting  on  Ashmore's  brow. 
The  week  following  their  marriage  they  left  for  New 
York,  where  they  were  going  to  reside.  During  the  win 
ter  Carrie  wrote  home  frequently,  giving  accounts  of  the 
many  gay  and  fashionable  parties  which  she  attended,  and 
once  in  a  letter  to  Anne  she  wrote,  "  The  flattering  atten- 


THE   BU1DE.  155 

tions  which  I  receive  have  more  than  once  made  Ashrnore 
jealous." 

Two  years  from  the  time  they  were  married,  Mrs.  Ash- 
more  was  brought  back  to  her  home,  a  pale  faded  inva 
lid,  worn  out  by  constant  dissipation  and  the  care  of  a 
sickly  baby,  so  poor  and  blue  that  even  I  couldn't  bear  to 
touch  it.  Three  days  after  their  arrival  Mr.  Evelyn 
brought  to  us  his  bride,  Cousin  Emma,  blooming  with 
health  and  beauty.  I  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  ex 
ceedingly  beautiful  Mrs.  Evelyn  was  the  same  white  faced 
girl,  who,  two  years  before,  had  sat  with  me  beneath  the 
old  grape-vine. 

The  day  after  she  came,  I  went  with  her  to  visit  Carrie, 
who,  the  physicians  said,  was  in  a  decline.  I  had  not  seen 
her  before  since  her  return,  and  on  entering  the  sick-room, 
I  was  as  much  surprised  at  her  haggard  face,  sunken  eyes, 
and  sallow  skin,  as  was  Mr.  Ashmore  at  the  appearance 
of  Emma.  "  Is  it  possible,"  said  he,  coming  forward,  "  Is 
it  possible,  Ernma — Mrs.  Evelyn,  that  you  have  entirely 
recovered  ?  " 

I  remembered  what  he  had  once  said  about  "  invalid 
wives,"  and  I  feared  that  the  comparison  he  was  evidently 
making  we  aid  not  ,be  very  favorable  toward  Carrie.  We 
afterward  learned,  however,  that  he  was  the  kindest  of 
husbands,  frequently  walking  half  the  night  with  his  cry 
ing  baby,  and  at  other  times  trying  to  soothe  his  nervous 
wife,  who  was  sometimes  very  irritable. 

Before  we  left,  Carrie  drew  Emma  closely  to  her  and 
said,  "Thay  tell  me  I  probably  shall  never  get  well,  and 
now,  while  I  have  tune,  I  wish  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for 
the  great  wrong  I  once  did  you." 

"  How  ;'  When  ?  "  asked  Emma,  quickly,  and  Carrie 
continue  a :  "  When  first  I  saw  him  who  is  my  husband,  I 
determined  to  leave  no  means  untried  to  secure  him  fo? 


156  EICE  C 

myself;  I  knew  you  were  engaged,  but  I  fancied  that 
your  ill  health  annoyed  him,  and  I  played  my  part  well. 
You  know  how  I  succeeded,  but  I  am  sure  you  forgive 
me,  for  you  love  Mr.  Evelyn  quite  as  well,  perhaps  better." 

"Yes,  far  better,"  was  Emma's  reply,  as  she  kissed 
Carrie's  wan  cheek ;  then  bidding  her  good-by,  she  prom 
ised  to  call  frequently  during  her  stay  in  town.  She  kept 
her  word,  and  was  often  accompanied  by  Mr.  Evelyn, 
who  strove  faithfully  and  successfully,  too,  to  lead  into 
the  path  of  peace,  her  whose  days  were  well  nigh  ended. 

'Twas  on  one  of  those  bright  days  in  the  Indian  summer 
time,  that  Carrie  at  last  slept  the  sleep  that  knows  no 
awakening.  The  evening  after  the  burial,  I  went  in  at 
Capt.  Howard's,  and  all  the  animosity  I  had  cherished  for 
Mr.  Ashmoro  vanished,  when  I  saw  the  large  tear-drops, 
as  they  fell  on  the  face  of  his  motherless  babe,  whose 
wailing  cries  he  endeavored  in  vain  to  hush.  When  the 
first  snow  flakes  came,  they  fell  on  a  little  mound,  where 
by  the  side  of  her  mother  Mr.  Ashinore  had  laid  his  baby, 
Emma. 

jSY>\v,  side  by  side  they  are  sleeping, 
In  the  grave's  dark,  dreamless  bed, 

While  the  willow  boughs  seem  weeping, 
As  they  bend  above  the  dead. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  after  telling  you  that,  yielding 
to  the  importunities  of  Emma's  parents,  Mr.  Evelyn,  at 
last  moved  to  the  city,  where,  if  I  mistake  not,  he  is  still 
li  ving,  my  story  is  finished.  But  do  not,  I  pray  you, 
think  that  these  few  pages  contain  all  that  I  know  of  ths 
olden  time : 


Oh  no,  far  down  in  memory's  well, 

Exhaustless  stores  remain, 
From  which,  perchance,  some  future  day, 

I'll  weave  a  tale  again. 


a; fa  dilfarts; 

OB, 

RICE  CORNER  NUMBER  TWO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE     GILBERTS. 

THE  spring  following  Carrie  Howard's  death,  Rice  Cor 
ner  was  thrown  into  a  commotion  by  the  astounding  fact 
that  Capt.  Howard  was  going  out  west,  and  had  sold  his 
farm  to  a  gentleman  from  the  city,  whose  wife  "  kept  six 
servants,  wore  silk  ah1  the  time,  never  went  inside  of  the 
kitchen,  never  saw  a  churn,  breakfasted  at  ten,  dined  at 
three,  and  had  supper  the  next  day  !  " 

Such  was  the  story  which  Mercy  Jenkins  detailed  to 
us,  early  one  Monday  morning,  and  then,  eager  to  com 
municate  so  desirable  a  piece  of  news  to  others  of  her  ac 
quaintance,  she  started  off,  stopping  for  a  moment  as  she 
passed  the  wash-room,  to  see  if  Sally's  clothes  "  wan't 
kinder  dingy  and  yaller."  As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  the 
astonishment  of  our  household  broke  forth,  grandma  won 
dering  why  Capt.  Howard  wanted  to  go  to  title  ends  of 
the  earth,  as  she  designated  Chicago,  their  place  of  desti 
nation,  and  what  she  should  do  without  Aunt  Eunice, 
who,  having  been  born  on  grandma's  wedding  day,  waa 
very  dear  to  her,  and  then  her  age  was  so  easy  to  keep  ! 


158  T1IE  GLLBEHTS. 

But  the  best  of  friends  must  part,  and  when  at  Mrs.  How« 
ard's  last  tea-drinking  with  us,  I  saw  how  badly  they  all 
felt,  and  how  many  tears  were  shed,  I  firmly  resolved 
never  to  like  anybody  but  my  own  folks,  unless,  indeed,  I 
made  an  exception  in  favor  of  Tom  Jenkins,  who  so  often 
drew  me  to  school  on  his  sled,  and  who  made  such  comi 
cal  looking  jack-o'-lanterns  out  of  the  big  yellow  pumpkins. 

In  reply  to  the  numerous  questions  concerning  Mr.  Gil 
bert,  the  purchaser  of  their  farm,  Mrs.  Howard  could  only 
reply,  that  he  was  very  wealthy  and  had  got  tired  of  liv 
ing  in  the  city ;  adding,  further,  that  he  wore  a  "  mon 
strous  pair  of  musquitoes,"  had  an  evil  looking  eye,  four 
children,  smoked  cigars,  and  was  a  lawyer  by  profession. 
This  last  was  all  grandma  wanted  to  know  about  him, — 
"that  told  the  whole  story,"  f°r  there  never  was  but  one 
decent  lawyer,  and  that  was  Mr.  Evelyn,  Cousin  Emma's 
husband.  Dear  old  lady!  —  when,  a  few  years  ago,  she 
heard  that  I,  her  favorite  grandchild,  was  to  marry  one 
of  the  craft,  she  made  another  exception  in  his  favor,  say 
ing  that  "  if  he  wasn't  all  straight,  Mary  would  soon  make 
him  so !  "  , 

Within  a  short  time  after  Aunt  Eunice's  visit,  she  left 
Rice  Corner,  and  on  the  same  day  wagon  load  after  wag 
on  load  of  Mr.  Gilbert's  furniture  passed  our  house,  until 
Sally  declared  "  there  was  enough  to  keep  a  tavern,  and 
she  didn't  see  nothin'  where  they's  goin'  to  put  it,"  at  the 
same  time  announcing  her  intention  of  "running  down 
there  after  dinner,  to  see  what  was  going  on." 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Sally  was  now  a  married 
woman — ''Mrs.  Michael  Welsh ; "  consequently,  mother, 
who  lived^Wth  her,  instead  of  her  living  with  mother,  did 
not  presume  to  interfere  with  her  much,  though  she  hinted 
pretty  strongly  that  she  "  always  liked  to  see  people  mind 
their  own  ailairs."  But  Sally  was  incorrigible.  The  din- 


THE  GILBERTS.  15b 

ner  dishes  were  washed  with  a  whew,  I  was  coaxed  into 
sweeping  the  back  room  —  which  I  did,  leaving  the  dirt 
under  the  broom  behind  the  door — while  Mrs.  Welsh, 
donning  a  pink  calico,  blue  shawl,  and  bonnet  trimmed 
with  dark  green,  started  off  on  her  prying  excursion,  stop 
ping  by  the  roadside  where  Mike  was  making  fence,  and 
keeping  him,  as  grandma  said,  "  full  half  an  hour  by  the 
clock  from  his  work." 

Not  long  after  Sally's  departure,  a  handsome  carriage, 
drawn  by  two  fine  bay  horses,  passed  our  house ;  and,  as 
the  windows  were  down,  we  could  plainly  discern  a  pale, 
delicate-looking  lady,  wrapped  in  shawls,  a  tall,  stylish- 
looking  girl,  another  one  about  my  own  age,  and  two 
beautiful  little  boys. 

"  That 's  the  Gilberts,  I  know,"  said  Anna.  "  Oh,  I  'm 
so  glad.  Sally's  gone,  for  now  we  shall  have  the  full  par 
ticulars  ; "  and  again  we  waited  as  impatiently  for  Sally's 
return  as  we  had  once  done  before  for  grandma. 

At  last,  to  our  great  relief,  the  green  ribbons  and  blue 
shawl  were  descried  in  the  distance,  and  ere  long  Sally 
was  with  us,  ejaculating,  "Oh,  my  — mercy  me!"  etc., 
thus  giving  us  an  inkling  of  what  was  to  follow.  "  Of  all 
the  sights  that  ever  I  have  seen,"  said  she,  folding  up  the 
blue  shawl,  and  smoothing  down  the  pink  calico.  "  There's 
carpeting  enough  to  cover  every  crack  and  crevice  —  all 
pure  Bristles,  too !  " 

Here  I  tittered,  whereupon  Sally  angrily  retorted,  that 
"  she  guessed  she  knew  how  to  talk  proper,  if  she  had  n't 
studied  grarmar." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Anna,  "  go  on ;  Bruss^  carpeting 
and  what  else  ?  " 

"  Mercy  knows  what  else,"  answered  Sally.  "  I  can't 
begin  to  guess  tho  names  of  half  the  things.  There's  ma 
hogany,  and  rosewood,  and  marble  fixin's, — and  in  Miss 

11 


160  THE  GILBEETS. 

Gilbert's  room  there's  lace  curtains  and  silk  damson 
ones — " 

A  look  from  Anna  restrained  me  this  time,  and  Sally 
continued. 

"  Mercy  Jenkins  is  there,  helpin',  and  she  says  Mr.  Gil 
bert  told  'em  his  wife  never  et  a  piece  of  salt  pork  in  her 
life,  and  knew  no  more  how  bread  was  made  than  a  child 
two  years  old." 

"  What  a  simple  critter  she  must  be,"  said  grandma, 
while  Anna  asked  if  she  saw  Mrs.  Gilbert,  and  if  that  tall 
girl  was  her  daughter. 

"Yes,  I  seen  her,"  answered  Sally,  "  and  I  guess  she's 
weakly,  for  the  minit  she  got  into  the  house  she  lay  down 
on  the  sofa,  which  Mr.  Gilbert  says  cost  seventy-five  dol 
lars.  That  tall,  proud-lookin'  thing  they  call  Miss  Ada- 
line,  but  I'll  warrant  you  don't  catch  me  puttin'  011  the 
Miss.  jT  called  her  Adaline,  and  you  had  orto  seen  how 
her  big  eyes  looked  at  me.  Says  she,  at  last,  'Are  you 
one  of  pa's  new  servants  ? ' 

"'Servants!'  says  I,  'no,  indeed;  I'm  Mrs.  Michael 
Welsh,  one  of  your  nighest  neighbors.' 

"  Then  I  told  her  that  there  were  two  nice  girls  lived 
in  the  house  with  me,  and  she  'd  better  get  acquainted 
with  'em,  right  away ;  and  then  with  the  hatefulest  of  all 
hateful  laughs,  she  asked  if  'they  wore  glass  beads  and 
went  barefoot.' " 

I  fancied  that  neither  Juliet  nor  Anna  were  greatly 
pleased  at  being  introduced  by  Sally,  the  housemaid,  to 
the  elegant  Adaline  Gilbert,  who  had  come  to  the  coun 
try  with  a|pthing  but  a  favorable  impression  of  its  inhab 
itants.  The  second  daughter,  the  one  about  my  own 
age,  Sally  said  they  called  Nellie ;  "  and  a  nice,  olever 
creature  she  is,  too  —  not  a  bit  stuck  up  like  t'other  one. 
Why,  I  do  believe  she'd  walked  every  big  beam  in  the 


THE  GILBEETS.  161 

Darn  before  she'd  been  there  half  an  hour,  and  the  last  I 
saw  of  her,  she  was  coaxing  a  cow  to  lie  still  while  she  got 
upon  her  back !  " 

How  my  heart  warmed  toward  the  romping  Nellie,  and 
how  I  wondered  if,  after  that  beam-walking  exploit,  her 
hooks  and  eyes  were  all  in  their  places !  The  two  little 
boys,  Sally  said,  were  twins,  Edward  and  Egbert,  or,  as 
they  were  familiarly  called,  Burt  and  Eddie.  This  was 
nearly  all  she  had  learned,  if  we  except  the  fact  that  the 
family  ate  with  silver  forks,  and  drank  wine  after  dinner. 
This  last,  mother  pronounced  heterodox,  while  I,  who 
dearly  loved  the  juice  of  the  grape,  and  sometimes  left 
linger  marks  on  the  top  shelf,  whither  I  had  climbed  for 
a  sip  from  grandma's  decanter,  secretly  hoped  I  should 
some  day  dine  with  Nellie  Gilbert,  and  drink  all  the  wine 
I  wanted,  thinking  how  many  times  I  'd  rinse  my  mouth 
so  mother  should  n't  smell  my  breath  ! 

In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  the  affairs  of  the  Gilbert 
family  were  pretty  generally  canvassed  in  Rice  Corner, 
Mercy  Jenkins  giving  it  as  her  opinion  that  "  Miss  Gil 
bert  was  much  the  likeliest  of  the  two,  and  that  Mr.  Gil 
bert  was  cross,  overbearing,  and  big  feeling." 


CHAPTER  II. 

NELLIE. 

• 

As  yet  I  had  only  seen  Nellie  in  the  distance,  and  wa? 
about  despairing  of  making  her  acquaintance,  when  acci 
dent  threw  her  in  my  way.  Directly  opposite  our  house, 
and  just  accross  a  long  green  meadow,  was  a  piece  of 


162  THE  GILBERTS. 

woods  whicli  belonged  to  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  there,  one  af 
ternoon  early  in  May,  I  saw  Nellie.  I  had  seen  her  there 
before,  but  never  dared  approach  her ;  and  now  I  divided 
my  time  between  watching  her  and  a  dense  black  cloud 
which  had  appeared  in  the  west,  and  was  fast  approach 
ing  the  zenith.  I  was  just  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be 
if  the  rain  should  drive  her  to  our  house  for  shelter,  when 
patter,  patter  came  the  large  drops  in  my  face ;  thicker 
and  faster  they  fell,  until  it  seemed  like  a  perfect  deluge ; 
and  through  the  almost  blinding  sheet  of  rain  I  descried 
Nellie  coming  toward  me  at  a  furious  rate.  With  the 
agility  of  a  fawn  she  bounded  over  the  gate,  and  with  the 
exclamation  of,  "Ain't  I  wetter  than  a  drownded  rat?" 
we  were  perfectly  well  acquainted. 

It  took  but  a  short  time  to  divest  her  of  her  dripping 
garments,  and  array  her  in  some  of  mine,  which  Sally  said 
"  fitted  her  to  a  T,"  though  I  fancied  she  looked  sadly  out 
of  place  in  my  linen  pantalets  and  long-sleeved  dress.  She 
was  a  great  lover  of  fun  and  frolic,  and  in  less  than  half 
an  hour  had  "ridden  to  Boston"  on  Joe's  rocking-horse, 
turned  the  little  wheel  faster  than  even  I  dared  to  turn 
it,  tried  on  grandma's  stays,  and  then,  as  a  crowning  feat, 
tried  the  rather  dangerous  experiment  of  riding  down  the 
garret  stairs  on  a  board !  The  clatter  brought  up  grand 
ma,  and  I  felt  some  doubts  about  her  relishing  a  kind  of 
play  which  savored  so  much  of  what  she  called  "a  racket,"  • 
but  the  soft  brown  eyes  which  looked  at  her  so  pleadingly, 
were  too  full  of  love,  gentleness,  and  mischief  to  be  re- 
sisted,  and  permission  for  "one  more  ride"  was  given, 
"  provided  she'd  promise  not  to  break  her  neck." 

Oh,  what  fun  we  had  that  afternoon !  What  a  big  rent 
she  tore  in  my  gingham  frock,  and  what  a  "  dear,  delight 
ful  old  Jfeiunted  castle  of  a  thing"  she  pronounced  our 
bouse  to  be.  Darling,  darling  Nellie  I  I  shut  my  eyes 


NELLIE.  1G3 

and  she  comes  before  me  again,  the  same  bright,  beauti 
ful  creature  she  was  when  I  saw  her  first,  as  she  was  when 
I  saw  her  for  the  last,  last  time. 

It  rained  until  dark,  and  Nellie,  who  confidently  ex 
pected  to  stay  all  night,  had  whispered  to  me  her  inten 
tion  of  "tying  our  toes  together,"  when  there  came  a 
tremendous  rap  upon  the  door,  and,  without  waiting  to 
be  bidden,  in  walked  Mr.  Gilbert,  puffing  and  swelling, 
and  making  himself  perfectly  at  home,  in  a  kind  of  off- 
Iiand  manner,  which  had  in  it  so  much  of  condescension 
that  I  was  disgusted,  and,  when  sure  Nellie  would  not 
see  me,  I  made  at  him  a  wry  face,  thereby  feeling  greatly 
relieved! 

After  managing  to  let  mother  know  hov/  expensive  his 
family  was,  how  much  he  paid  yearly  for  wines  and  cigars, 
and  how  much  Adaline's  education  and  piano  had  cost, 
he  arose  to  go,  saying  to  his  daughter,  "Come,  Puss, 
take  oif  those,  —  ahem  !  —  those  habiliments,  and  let's  be 
off!" 

Nellie  obeyed,  and  just  before  she  was  ready  to  start, 
she  asked,  "  When  I  would  come  and  spend  the  day  with 
her  ?  " 

I  looked  at  mother,  mother  looked  at  Mr.  Gilbert,  Mr. 
Gilbert  looked  at  me,  and  after  surveying  me  from  head 
to  foot,  said,  spitting  between  every  other  word,  "  Ye-es, 
ye-es,  we  've  come  to  live  in  the  country,  and  I  suppose, 
(h^re  he  spit  three  successive  times,)  and  I  suppose  we 
may  as  well  be  on  friendly  terms  as  any  other ;  so  mad 
am,  (turning  to  mother,)  I  am  willing  to  have  your  little 
daughter  visit  us  occasionally."  Then  adding  that  "  he 
would  extend  the  same  invitation  to  her,  were  it  not  that 
his  wife  was  an  invalid  and  saw  no  company,"  he  de^ 
parted. 

One  morning,  several  days  afterward,  a  servant  brought 


1G4  THE  GILBERTS. 

to  our  house  a  neat  little  note  from  Mrs.  Gilbert,  asking 
mother  to  let  me  spend  the  day  with  Nellie.  After  some 
consultation  between  mother  and  grandma,  it  was  deci 
ded  that  I  might  go,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  I  was 
dressed  and  on  the  road,  my  hair  braided  so  tightly  in 
rny  neck  that  the  little  red  bumps  of  flesh  set  up  here 
and  there,  like  currants  on  a  brown  earthen  platter. 

Nellie  did  not  wait  to  receive  me  formally,  but  came 
running  down  the  road,  telling  me  that  Robin  had  made 
a  swing  in  the  barn,  and  that  we  would  play  there  most 
all  day,  as  her  mother  was  sick,  and  Adaline,  who  occu 
pied  two-thirds  of  the  house,  would  n't  let  us  come  near 
her.  This  Adaline  was  to  me  a  very  formidable  person 
age.  Hitherto  I  had  only  caught  glimpses  of  her,  as  with 
long  skirts  and  waving  plumes  she  sometimes  dashed  past 
our  house  on  horseback,  and  it  was  with  great  trepida 
tion  that  I  now  followed  Nellie  into  the  parlor,  where  she 
told  me  her  sister  was. 

"  Adaline,  this  is  my  little  friend,"  said  she  ;  and  Ada- 
line  replied,  "  How  do  you  do,  little  friend  f  " 

My  cheeks  tingled,  and  for  the  first  time,  raising  my 
eyes,  I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the  haughty  belle. 
She  was  very  tall  and  queen-like  in  her  figure,  and  though 
she  could  hardly  be  called  handsome,  there  was  about  her 
an  air  of  elegance  and  refinement  which  partially  compen 
sated  for  the  absence  of  beauty.  That  she  was  proiad, 
one  could  see  from  the  glance  of  her  large  black  eyes  and 
the  curl  of  her  lip.  Coolly  surveying  me  for  a  moment, 
as  she  would  any  other  curious  specimen,  she  resumed 
her  book,  never  speaking  to  me  again,  except  to  ask, 
when  she  saw  me  gazing  wonderingly  around  the  splen 
didly  furnished  room,  "if  I  supposed  I  could  remember 
every  article  of  furniture,  and  give  a  faithful  report." 

I  thought  I  was  insulted  when  she  called  me  "  little 


NELLIE.  165 

friend,"  and  now,  feeling  sure  of  it,  I  tartly  replied,  that 
"  if  I  couldn't,  she,  perhaps,  might  lend  me  paper  and 
pencil,  with  which  to  write  them  down." 

"  Original,  truly,"  said  she,  again  poring  over  her  book. 

Nellie,  who  had  left  me  for  a  moment,  now  returned, 
bidding  me  come  and  see  her  mother,  and  passing  through 
the  long  hall,  I  was  soon  in  Mrs.  Gilbert's  room,  which 
was  as  tastefully,  though  perhaps  not  quite  so  richly,  fur 
nished  as  the  parlor.  Mrs.  Gilbert  was  lying  upon  a  sofa, 
and  the  moment  I  looked  upon  her,  the  love  which  I  had 
so  freely  given  the  daughter,  was  shared  with  the  moth 
er,  in  whose  pale,  sweet  face,  and  soft,  brown  eyes,  I  saw 
a  strong  resemblance  to  Nellie.  She  was  attired  in  a 
rose-colored  morning-gown,  which  flowed  open  in  front, 
disclosing  to  view  a  larger  quantity  of  rich  French  em 
broidery  than  I  had  ever  before  seen. 

Many  times  during  the  day,  and  many  times  since, 
have  I  wondered  what  made  her  marry,  and  if  she  really 
loved,  the  bearish  looking  man  who  occasionally  stalked 
into  the  room,  smoking  cigars  and  talking  very  loudly, 
when  he  knew  how  her  head  was  throbbing  with  pain. 

I  had  eaten  but  little  breakfast  that  morning,  and  ver 
ily  I  thought  I  should  famish  before  their  dinner  hour  ar 
rived  ;  and  when  at  last  it  came,  and  I  saw  the  table  glit 
tering  with  silver,  I  felt  many  misgivings  as  to  my  abil 
ity  to  acquit  myself  creditably.  But  by  dint  of  watching 
Nellie,  doing  just  what  she  did,  and  refusing  just  what, 
she  refused,  I  managed  to  get  through  with  it  tolerably 
well.  For  once,  too,  in  my  life,  I  drank  all  the  wine  I 
wanted ;  the  result  of  which  was,  that  long  before  sun 
set  I  went  home,  crying  and  vomiting  with  the  sick  head- 
ache,  which  Sally  said  "  served  me  right ;"  at  the  same 
tune  hinting  her  belief  that  I  was  slightly  intoxicated ! 


166  THE  GELBEETS. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE     HAUNTED     HOUSE. 

Dow^r  our  long,  green  lane,  and  at  the  farther  extrein 
ity  of  the  narrow  foot-path  which  led  to  the  "  old  mine,? 
was  another  path  or  wagon  road,  which  wound  along 
among  the  fern  bushes,  under  the  chestnut  trees,  across 
the  hemlock  swamp,  and  up  to  a  grassy  ridge  which  over 
looked  a  small  pond,  said,  of  course,  to  have  no  bottom 
Fully  crediting  this  story,  and  knowing,  moreover,  that 
China  was  opposite  to  us,  I  had  often  taken  down  my 
atlas  and  hunted  through  that  ancient  empire,  in  hopes 
of  finding  a  corresponding  sheet  of  water.  Failing  to  do 
so,  I  had  made  one  with  my  pencil,  writing  against  it, 
"  Cranberry  Pond,"  that  being  the  name  of  its  American 
brother. 

Just  above  the  pond  on  the  grassy  ridge,  stood  an  old, 
dilapidated  building,  which  had  long  borne  the  name  of 
the  "haunted  house."  I  never  knew  whether  this  title 
was  given  it  on  account  of  its  proximity  to  the  "old 
mine,"  or  because  it  stood  near  the  very  spot  where, 
years  and  years  ago,  the  "bloody  Indians"  pushed  those 
cart  loads  of  burning  hemp  against  the  doors  "  of  the 
only  remaining  house  in  Quaboag" — for  which  see  Good- 
rich's  Child's  History,  page ,  somewhere  toward  the 

commencement.  I  only  know  that  'twas  called  the 
"  haunted  house,"  and  that,  for  a  long  time,  no  one  would 
live  there,  on  account  of  the  rapping,  dancing,  and  cut- 
ting  up  generally,  which  was  said  to  prevail  there,  partic 
ularly  in  the  west  room,  the  one  overhung  by  creepers 
and  grape-vines. 

Three  or  four  years  before  our  story  opens,  a  widow 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE.  167 

lady,  Mrs.  Hudson,  with  her  only  daughter,  Mabel,  ap 
peared  in  our  neighborhood,  hiring  the  "  haunted  house,'5 
and,  in  spite  of  the  neighbors'  predictions  to  the  contrary, 
living  there  quietly  and  peaceably,  unharmed  by  ghost  or 
goblin.  At  first,  Mrs.  Hudson  was  looked  upon  with  dis 
trust,  and  even  a  league  with  a  certain  old  fellow  was 
hinted  at ;  but  as  she  seemed  to  be  well  disposed,  kind, 
and  affable  toward  all,  this  feeling  gradually  wore  away, 
and  now  she  was  universally  liked,  while  Mabel,  her 
daughter,  was  a  general  favorite.  For  two  years  past, 
Mabel  had  worked  in  the  Fiskdale  factory  a  portion  of 
the  time,  going  to  school  the  remainder  of  the  year.  She 
was  fitting  herself  for  a  teacher,  and  as  the  school  in  onr 
district  was  small,  the  trustees  had  this  summer  kindly 
offered  it  to  her.  This  arrangement  delighted  me  ;  for, 
next  to  NVilie  Gilbert,  I  loved  Mabel  Hudson  best  of 
anybody ;  and  I  fancied,  too,  that  they  looked  alike,  but 
of  course  it  was  ah1  fancy. 

Mrs.  Hudson  was  a  tailoress,  and  the  day  following  my 
visit  to  Mr.  Gilbert's  I  was  sent  by  mother  to  take  her 
some  work.  I  found  her  in  the  little  porch,  her  white 
cap-border  falling  over  her  placid  face,  and  her  wide 
checked  apron  coming  nearly  to  the  bottom  of  her  dress. 
Mabel  was  there,  too,  and  as  she  arose  to  receive  me, 
something  about  her  reminded  me  of  Adaline  Gilbert.  I 
could  not  tell  what  it  was,  for  Mabel  was  very  beautiful, 
and  beside  her  Adaline  would  be  plain ;  still,  there  was  a 
resemblance,  either  in  voice  or  manner,  and  this  it  was, 
perhaps,  which  made  me  so  soon  mention  the  Gilberts, 
and  xny  visit  to  them  the  day  previous. 

Instantly  Mrs.  Hudson  and  Mabel  exchanged  glances, 
and  I  -thought  the  face  of  the  former  grew  a  shade  paler  • 
still,  I  may  have  been  mistaken,  for,  in  her  usual  tone  of 
voice,  she  began  to  ask  me  numberless  questions  concern- 


'68  THE  GILBERTS. 

mg  the  family,  which  seemed  singular,  as  she  was  not  re» 
markable  for  curiosity.  But  it  suited  me.  I  loved  to 
talk  then  not  less  than  I  do  now,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I 
had  told  all  I  knew,  and  more,  too,  most  likely. 

At  last,  Mrs.  Hudson  asked  about  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  how 
I  liked  him. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  I.  "  He's  the  hatefulest,  Grossest, 
big-feeliugest  man  I  ever  saw,  and  Adaline  is  just  like 
him ! " 

Had  I  been  a  little  older  I  might,  perhaps,  have  won 
dered  at  the  crimson  flush  which  my  hasty  words  brought 
to  Mrs.  Hudson's  cheek,  but  I  did  not  notice  it  then,  and 
thinking  she  was,  of  course,  highly  entertained,  I  contin 
ued  to  talk  about  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Adaline,  in  the  last  of 
whom  Mabel  seemed  the  most  interested.  Of  Nellie  I 
spoke  with  the  utmost  affection,  and  when  Mrs.  Hudson 
expressed  a  wish  to  see  her,  I  promised,  if  possible,  to 
bring  her  there  ;  then,  as  I  had  already  outstaid  the  time 
for  which  permission  had  been  given,  I  tied  on  my  sun- 
bonnet  and  started  for  home,  revolving  the  ways  and 
means  by  which  I  should  keep  my  promise. 

This  proved  to  be  a  very  easy  matter ;  for,  within  a 
few  days,  Nellie  came  to  return  my  visit,  and  as  mother 
had  other  company,  she  the  more  readily  gave  us  permis 
sion  to  go  where  we  pleased.  Nellie  had  a  perfect  pas 
sion  for  ghost  and  witch  stories,  saying,  though,  that  "she 
never  liked  to  have  them  explained — she'd  rather  they'd 
be  left  in  solemn  mystery ; "  so  when  I  told  her  of  the 
w  old  mine"  and  the  "  haunted  house,"  she  immediately 
expressed  a  desire  to  sec  them.  Hiding  our  bonnets  un 
der  our  aprons,  the  better  to  conceal  our  intentions  from 
Bister  Lizzie,  who,  we  fancied,  had  serious  thoughts  of 
tagging,  we  sent  her  up  stairs  in  quest  of  something 
which  we  knew  was  not  there,  and  then  away  we  scam- 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE,  169 

per*)d  down  the  green  lane  and  across  the  pasture,  drop 
ping  once  into  some  alders  as  Lizzie's  yellow  hair  became 
visible  on  the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  lane.  Our  con 
sciences  smote  us  a  little,  but  we  kept  still  until  she  re 
turned  to  the  house ;  then,  continuing  our  way,  we  soon 
came  in  sight  of  the  mine,  which  Nellie  determined  to 
explore. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  the  at 
tempt.  She  was  resolved,  and  stationing  myself  at  a  safe 
distance,  I  waited  while  she  scrambled  over  stones,  sticks, 
logs,  and  bushes,  until  she  finally  disappeared  in  the  cave. 
Ere,  long,  however,  she  returned  with  soiled  pantalets,  torn 
apron,  and  scratched  face,  saying  that  "  the  mine  was  no 
thing  in  the  world  but  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  a  mighty 
little  one  at  that."  After  this,  I  didn't  know  but  I  would 
sometime  venture  in,  but  for  fear  of  what  might  happen, 
I  concluded  to  choose  a  time  when  I  had  'nt  run  away 
from  Liz ! 

When  I  presented  Nellie  to  Mrs.  Hudson,  she  took 
both  her  hands  in  hers,  and,  greatly  to  iny  surprise,  kissed 
her  on  both  cheeks.  Then  she  walked  hastily  into  the 
next  room,Jbut  not  until  I  saw  something  fall  from  her 
eyes,  which  I  am  sure  were  tears. 

"  Funny,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Nellie,  looking  wonderingly  at 
me.  "  I  don't  know  whether  to  laugh,  or  what." 

Mabel  now  came  in,  and  though  she  manifested  no  par 
ticular  emotion,  she  was  exceedingly  kind  to  Nellie,  ask 
ing  her  many  questions,  and  sometimes  smoothing  her 
brown  curls.  When  Mrs.  Hudson  again  appeared,  she 
was  very  calm,  but  I  noticed  that  her  eyes  constantly 
rested  upon  Nellie,  who,  with  Mabel's  gray  kitten  in  her 
lap,  was  seated  upon  the  door-step,  the  very  image  of 
childish  innocence  and  beauty.  Mrs.  Hudson  urged  us  to 
stay  to  tea,  but  I  declined,  knowing  that  there  was  com- 


170  THE  GILBEKTS. 

pany  at  home,  with  three  kinds  of  cake,  besides  cookies, 
for  supper.  So  bidding  her  good-by,  and  promising  to 
come  again,  we  started  homeward,  where  we  found  the 
ladies  discussing  their  green  tea  and  making  large  inroads 
upon  the  three  kinds  of  cake. 

Qne  of  them,  a  Mrs.  Thompson,  was  gifted  with  the  art 
of  fortune-telling,  by  means  of  tea-grounds,  and  wThen 
Nellie  and  I  took  our  seats  at  the  table,  she  kindly  offered 
to  see  what  was  in  store  for  us.  She  had  frequently  told 
my  fortune,  each  time  managing  to  fish  up  a  freckle- 
faced  boy,  so  nearly  resembling  her  grandson,  my  partic 
ular  aversion,  that  I  did  n't  care  to  hear  it  again.  But 
with  Nellie  'twas  all  new,  and  after  a  great  whirling  of 
tea  grounds  and  staining  of  mother's  best  table-cloth,  she 
passed  her  cup  to  Mrs.  Thompson,  confidently  whispering 
to  me  that  she  guessed  she'd  tell  her  something  about 
Willie  Raymond,  who  lived  in  the  city,  and  who  gave  her 
the  little  cornelian  ring  which  she  wore.  With  the  ut 
most  gravity  Mrs.  Thompson  read  off  the  past  and  pres 
ent,  and  then  peering  far  into  the  future,  she  suddenly 
exclaimed,  "  Oh  my !  there's  a  gulf,  or  something,  before 
you,  and  you  are  going  to  tumble  into  it  headlpng ;  don't 
ask  me  anything  more." 

I  never  did  and  never  shall  believe  in  fortune-telling, 
much  less  in  Granny  Thompson's  "  turned  up  cups,"  but 
years  after,  I  thought  of  her  prediction  with  regard  to 
'NTollifi  "fVinr  i:>oor  Nellie  1 


JJEALOTTST.  ]7J 

• 

CHAPTER  IV. 

JEALOUSY. 

ON  the  first  Monday  in  June  our  school  commenced, 
and  long  before  breakfast'  Lizzie  and  I  were  dressed,  and 
had  turned  inside  out  the  little  cupboard  over  the  fire 
place,  where  our  books  were  kept  during  vacation. 
Breakfast  being  over,  we  deposited  in  our  dinner-basket 
the  whole  of  a  custard  pie,  and  were  about  starting  off, 
when,  mother  said  "  we  should  n't  go  a  step  until  half  past 
eight,"  adding  further,  that  "we  must  put  that  pie  back, 
for  'twas  one  she'd  saved  for  their  own  dinner." 

Lizzie  pouted,  while  I  cried,  and  taking  my  bonnet,  I 
repaired  to  the  "  great  rock,"  where  the  sassafras,  black 
berries,  and  black  snakes  grew.  Here  I  sat  for  a  long 
time,  thinking  if  I  ever  did  grow  up  and  get  married,  (I 
was  sure  of  the  latter,)  I'd  have  all  the  custard  pie  I  could 
eat,  for  once!  In  the  midst  of  my  reverie  a  footstep 
sounded  near,  and  looking  up  I  saw  before  me  Nellie  Gil 
bert,  with  her  satchel  of  books  on  her  arm,  and  her  sun- 
bonnet  hanging  down  her  back,  after  the  fashion  in-  which 
I  usually  wore  mine.  In  reply  to  my  look  of  inquiry,  she 
said  her  father  had  concluded  to  let  her1  go  to  the  district 
school,  though  he  didn't  expect  her  to  learn  anything  but 
"  sla,n<r  terms  and  ill  manners." 

o 

By  this  time  it  was  half  past  eight,  and,  together  with 
Lizzie,  we  repaired  to  the  school-house,  where  we  found 
assembled  a  dozen  girls  and  as  many  boys,  among  whom 
was  Tom  Jenkins.  Tom  was  a  great  admirer  of  beauty, 
and  .hence  I  could  never  account  for  the  preference  he 
had  hitherto  shown  for  me,  whom  my  brothers  called 
"bung-eyed"  and  Sally  "raw-boned."  He,  however, 


172  THE  GILBERTS. 

didn't  think  so.  My  eyes,  he  said,  were  none  too  large, 
and  many  a  night  had  he  carried  home  my  books  for  me, 
and  many  a  morning  had  he  brought  me  nuts  and  raisins, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  time  when  I  found  in  my  desk  a  lit 
tle  note,  which  said ,  but  everybody  who's  been  to 

school,  knows  what  it  said ! 

Taking  it  all  round,  we  were  as  good  as  engaged ;  so  you 
can  judge  what  my  feelings  were  when,  before  the  night 
of  Nellie's  first  day  at  school,  I  saw  Tom  Jenkins  giving 
her  an  orange,  which  I  had  every  reason  to  think  was  ori 
ginally  intended  for  me !  I  knew  very  well  that  Nellie's 
brown  curls  and  eyes  had  done  the  mischief;  and  though 
I  did  not  love  her  the  less,  I  blamed  him  the  more  for  his 
fickleness,  for  only  a  week  before  he  had  praised  my  eyes, 
calling  them  a  "  beautiful  indigo  blue,"  and  all  that.  I 
was  highly  incensed,  and  wThen  on  our  way  from  school 
he  tried  to  speak  go od-humo redly,  I  said,  "  I'd  thank  you 
to  let  me  alone !  I  don't  like  you,  and  never  did !  " 

He  looked  sorry  for  a  minute,  but  soon  forgot  it  all  in 
talking  to  Nellie,  who,  after  he  had  left  us,  said  "  he  was 
a  cleverish  kind  of  boy,  though  he  couldn't  begin  with 
William  Raymond."  After  that  I  was  very  cool  toward 
Tom,  who  attached  himself  more  and  more  to  Nellie,  say 
ing  "  she  had  the  handsomest  eyes  he  ever  saw ; "  and, 
indeed,  I  think  it  chiefly  owing  to  those  soft,  brown, 
dreamy  eyes,  that  I  am  not  now  "  Mrs.  Tom  Jenkins,  of 
Jenkinsville,"  a  place  way  out  west,  whither  Tom  and  his 
mother  have  migrated ! 

One  day  Nellie  was  later  to  school  than  usual,  giving 
as  a  reason  that  their  folks  had  company  —  a  Mr.  Sher 
wood  and  his  mother,  from  Hartford ;  and  adding,  that 
"  if  I'd  never  tell  anybody  as  long  as  I  lived  and  breathed, 
she'd  tell  me  something." 

Of  course  I  promised,  and  then  Nellie  told  me  how  sho 


JEALOUSY.  173 

guessed  that  Mr.  Sherwood,  who  was  rich  and  handsome, 
liked  Adaline.  "Any  way,  Adaline  likes  him,"  said  she  ; 
"  and  oh,  she 's  so  nice  and  good  when  he 's  around.  I 
ain't  'Nell,  you  hateful  thing'  then,  but  I'm  'Sister  Nel 
lie.'  They  are  going  to  ride  this  morning,  and  perhaps 
they'll  go  by  here. — There  they  are,  now !  "  and  looking 
toward  the  road,  I  saw  Mr.  Sherwood  and  Adaline  Gilbert 
on  horseback,  riding  leisurely  past  the  school-house.  She 
was  nodding  to  Nellie,  but  he  was  looking  intently  at  Ma 
bel,  who  was  sitting  near  the  window.  I  know  he  asked 
Adaline  something  about  her,  for  I  distinctly  heard  a  part 
of  her  reply  —  "a  poor  factory-girl,"  and  Adaline's  head 
tossed  scornfully,  as  if  that  were  a  sufficient  reason  why 
Mabel  should  be  despised. 

Mr.  Sherwood  evidently  did  not  think  so,  for  the  next 
day  he  walked  by  alone, — and  the  next  day  he  did  the 
same,  this  time  bringing  with  him  a  book,  and  seating 
himself  in  the  shadow  of  a  chestnut  tree  not  far  from  the 
school-house.  The  moment  school  was  out,  he  arose  and 
came  forward,  inquiring  for  Nellie,  who,  of  course,  intro 
duced  him  to  Mabel.  The  three  then  walked  on  together, 
while  Tom  Jenkins  staid  in  the  rear  with  me,  wrondering 
what  I  wanted  to  act  so  for ;  "  couldn't  a  feller  like  more 
than  one  girl  if  he  wanted  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  s'pos*ed  a  feller  could,  though  I  didn't  know, 
nor  care ! " 

Tom  made  no  reply,  but  whittled  away  upon  a  bit  of 
shingle,  which  finally  assumed  the  shape  of  a  heart,  and 
which  I  afterward  found  in  his  desk  with  the  letter  "N" 
written  upon  it,  and  then  scratched  out.  "When  at  last 
we  reached  our  house,  Mr.  Sherwood  asked  Nellie  "where 
that  old  mine  and  saw-mill  were,  of  which  she  had  told 
him  so  much." 

"Right   on  Miss  Hudson's  way  home,"  said  Nelliot 


174  THE  GILBERTS. 

"  Let's  walk  along  with  her ; "  and  the  next  moment  Mr, 
Sherwood,  Mabel,  and  Xellie  were  in  the  long,  green 
lane  which  led  down  to  the  saw-mill. 

Oh,  how  Adaline  stormed  when  she  heard  of  it,  and 
how  sneeringly  she  spoke  to  Mr.  Sherwood  of  the  "  fac 
tory  girl,"  insinuating  that  the  bloom  on  her  cheek  was 
paint,  and  the  lily  on  her  brow  powder!  But  he  prob 
ably  did  not  believe  it,  for  almost  every  day  he  passed 
the  school-house,  generally  managing  to  speak  with  Ma 
bel  ;  and  once  he  went  all  the  way  home  with  her,  stay 
ing  ever  so  long,  too,  for  I  watched  until  'twas  pitch  dark, 
and  he  hadn't  got  back  yet ! 

In  a  day  or  two  he  went  home,  and  I  thought  no  more 
about  him,  until  Tom,  who  had  been  to  the  post-office, 
brought  Mabel  a  letter,  which  made  her  turn  red  and 
white  alternately,  until  at  last  she  cried.  She  was  very 
absent-minded  the  remainder  of  that  day,  letting  us  do  as 
we  pleased,  and  never  in  my  life  did  I  have  a  better  tune 
"  carrying  on"  than  I  did  that  afternoon  when  Mabel  re 
ceived  her  first  letter  from  Mr.  Sherwood. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

NEW     RELATIONS. 

ABOUT  six  weeks  after  the  close  of  Mabel's  school,  wo 
were  one  day  startled  with  the  intelligence  that  she  waa 
going  to  be  married,  and  to  Mr.  Sherwood,  too.  He  had 
become  tired  of  the  fashionable  ladies  of  his  acquaintance, 
and  when  he  saw  how  pure  and  artless  Mabel  was,  he  im« 


NEW  RELATIONS.  175 

mediately  became  interested  in  her ;  and  at  last  overcom? 
ing  all  feelings  of  pride,  he  had  oifered  her  his  hand,  and 
had  been  accepted.  At  first  we  could  hardly  credit  the 
story ;  but  when  Mrs.  Hudson  herself  confirmed  it,  we 
'gave  it  up,  and  again  I  wondered  if  I  should  be  invited. 
All  the  nicest  and  best  chestnuts  which  I  could  find,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  apples  and  butternuts,  I  carried  to  her, 
not  without  my  reward  either,  for  when  invitations  came 
to  us,  I  was  included  with  the  rest.  Our  family  were  the 
only  invited  guests,  and  I  felt  no  fears,  this  time,  of  being 
hidden  by  the  crowd. 

Just  before  the  ceremony  commenced,  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  heavy  footstep  upon  the  outer  porch,  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door,  and  then  into  the  room  came  Mr.  Gil 
bert  !  He  seemed  slightly  agitated,  but  not  one-half  so 
much  as  Mrs.  Hudson,  who  exclaimed,  "  William,  my  son, 
why  are  you  here  ?  " 

"I  came  to  witness  my  sister's  bridal,"  was  the 
answer;  and  turning  toward  the  clergyman,  he  said, 
somewhat  authoritatively,  "Do  not  delay  for  me,  sir 
Go  on." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  next  room,  and  then  the 
bridal  party  entered,  both  starting  with  surprise  as  they 
saw  Mr.  Gilbert.  Very  beautiful  did  Mabel  look,  as  she 
stood  up  to  take  upon  herself  the  marriage  vow,  not  a 
syllable  of  which  did  one  of  us  hear.  We  were  thinking 
of  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  the  strange  words,  "my  son"  and  "my 
sister." 

When  it  was  over,  and  Mabel  was  Mrs.  Sherwood,  Mr. 
Gilbert  approached  Mrs.  Hudson,  saying,  "  Come,  mother, 
let  me  lead  you  to  the  bride." 

With  an  impatient  gesture  she  waved  him  off,  and  go- 
ing  alone  to  her  daughter,  threw  her  arms  around  he* 
neck,  sobbing  convulsively.  There  was  an  awkward  si* 


176  THE    GILBERTS. 

lence,  and  then  Mr.  Gilbert,  thinking  he  was  called  upon 
for  an  explanation,  arose,  and  addressing  himself  mostly 
to  Mr.  Sherwood,  said,  "  I  suppose  what  has  transpired 
here  to  night  seems  rather  strange,  and  will  undoubtedly 
furnish  the  neighborhood  with  gossip  for  more  than  a 
week,  but  they  are  welcome  to  canvass  whatever  I  do.  I 
can't  help  it  if  I  was  born  with  an  unusual  degree  of  pride ; 
neither  can  I  help  feeling  mortified,  as  I  many  times  did, 
at  my  family,  particularly  after  she,"  glancing  at  his 
mother,  "  married  the  man  whose  name  she  bears." 

Here  Mrs.  Hudson  lifted  up  her  head,  and  coming  to 
Mr.  Gilbert's  side,  stood  proudly  erect,  while  he  continued: 
"  She  would  tell  you  he  was  a  good  man,  but  I  hated  him, 
and  swore  never  to  enter  the  house  while  he  lived.  I 
went  away,  took  care  of  myself,  grew  rich,  married  into 
one  of  the  first  families  in  Hartford,  and, —  and  —  " 

Here  he  paused,  and  his  mother,  continuing  the  sen- 
tence,  added,  "  and  grew  ashamed  of  your  own  mother, 
who  many  a  time  went  without  the  comforts  of  life  that 
you  might  be  educated.  You  were  always  a  proud,  way 
ward  boy,  William,  but  never  did  I  think  you  would  do 
as  you  have  done.  You  have  treated  me  with  utter  neg 
lect,  never  allowing  your  wife  to  see  me,  and  when  I  once 
proposed  visiting  you  in  Hartford,  you  asked  your  broth 
er,  now  dead,  to  dissuade  me  from  it,  if  possible,  for  you 
could  not  introduce  me  to  your  acquaintances  as  your 
mother.  Never  do  you  speak  of  me  to  your  children,  who, 
if  they  know  they  have  a  grandmother,  little  dream  that 
she  lives  within  a  mile  of  their  father's  dwelling.  One  of 
them  I  have  seen,  and  my  heart  yearned  toward  her  as  it 
did  toward  you  when  first  I  took  you  in  my  arms,  my 
first-born  baby ;  and  yet,  William,  I  thank  heaven  there 
is  in  her  sweet  face  no  trace  of  her  father's  features.  This 
may  sound  harsh,  unmotherly,  but  greatly  have  I  been 


NEW    RELATIONS.  177 

sinned  against,  and  now,  just  as  a  brighter  day  is  dawn 
ing  upon  me,  why  have  you  come  here  !  Say,  William, 
why?" 

By  the  time  Mrs.  Hudson  had  finished,  nearly  all  in  the 
room  were  weeping.  Mr.  Gilbert,  however,  seemed  per 
fectly  indifferent,  and  with  the  most  provoking  coolness 
replied,  "  I  came  to  see  my  fair  sister  married— to  con 
gratulate  her  upon  an  alliance  which  will  bring  us  upon  a 
more  equal  footing." 

"You  greatly  mistake  me,  sir,  "said  Mr.  Sherwood, 
turning  haughtily  toward  Mr.  Gilbert,  at  the  same  time 
drawing  Mabel  nearer  -to  him ;  "  you  greatly  mistake  me, 
if,  after  what  I  have  heard,  you  think  I  would  wish  for 
your  acquaintance.  If  my  wife,  when  poor  and  obscure, 
was  not  worthy  of  your  attention,  you  certainly  are  not 
now  worthy  of  hers,  and  it  is  my  request  that  our  inter 
course  should  end  here." 

Mr.  Gilbert  muttered  something  about  "extenuating 
circumstances,"  and  "  the  whole  not  being  told,"  but  no 
one  paid  him  any  attention ;  and  at  last,  snatching  up  his 
hat,  he  precipitately  left  the  house,  I  sending  after  him  a 
hearty  good  riddance,  and  mentally  hoping  he  would 
measure  his  length  in  the  ditch  which  he  must  pass  on  his 
way  across  hemlock  swamp. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sherwood  departed  on 
their  bridal  tour,  intending,  on  their  return,  to  take  their 
mother  with  them  to  the  city.  Several  times  during  their 
absence  I  saw  Mr.  Gilbert,  either  going  to  or  returning 
from  the  "  haunted  house,"  and  I  readily  guessed  he  was 
trying  to  talk  his  mother  over,  for  nothing  could  be  more 
mortifying  than  to  be  cut  by  the  Sherwoods,  who  were 
among  the  first  in  Hartford.  Afterward,  greatly  to  my 
satisfaction,  I  heard  that  though,  mother-like,  Mrs.  Hud. 
son  had  forgiven  her  son,  Mr.  Sherwood  ever  treated  him 

12 


J  78  THE   GILBERTS; 

with  a  cool  haughtiness,  which  effectually  kept  him  at  a 
distance. 

Once,  indeed,  at  Mabel's  earnest  request,  Mrs.  Gilbert 
and  Nellie  were  invited  to  visit  her,  and  as  the  former 
was  too  feeble  to  accomplish  the  journey,  Nellie  went 
alone,  staying  a  long  time,  and  torturing  her  sister  on  her 
return  with  a  glowing  account  of  the  elegantly  furnished 
house,  of  which  Adaline  had  once  hoped  to  be  the  proud 
mistress. 

For  several  years  after  Mabel's  departure  from  Rice 
Corner,  nothing  especial  occurred  in  the  Gilbert  family, 
except  the  marriage  of  Adaline  with  a  rich  bachelor,  who 
must  have  been  many  years  older  than  her  father,  for  he 
colored  his  whiskers,  wore  false  teeth  and  a  wig,  besides 
having,  as  Nellie 'declared,  a  wooden  leg!  For  the  truth 
of  this  last  I  will  not  vouch,  as  Nellie's  assertion  was  only 
founded  upon  the  fact  of  her  having  once  looked  through 
the  keyhole  of  his  door,  and  espied  standing  by  his  bed 
something  which  looked  like  a  cork  leg,  but  which  might 
have  been  a  boot !  What  Adaline  saw  in  him  to  like,  I 
could  never  guess.  I  suppose,  however,  that  she  only 
'  ooked  at  his  rich  gilding,  which  covered  a  multitude  of 
defects. 

Immediately  after  the  wedding,  the  happy  pair  started 
for  a  two  years'  tour  in  Europe,  where  the  youthful  bride 
so  enraged  her  bald-headed  lord  by  flirting  with  a  mus« 
tachcd  Frenchman,  that  in  a  fit  of  anger  the  old  man 
picked  up  his  goods,  chattels,  and  wife,'  and  returned  tc 
New  York  within  three  months  of  his  leaving  it ! 


POOK,    POOR   NELLIE.  179 

CHAPTER  VI. 

POOK,     POOH     NELLIE. 

A  ND' now,  in  the  closing  chapter  of  this  brief  sketch  of 
the  Gilberts,  I  come  to  the  saddest  part,  the  fate  of  poor 
Nellie,  the  clearest  playmate  my  childhood  ever  knew ; 
she  whom  the  lapse  of  years  ripened  into  a  graceful,  beau 
tiful  girl,  loved  by  everybody,  even  by  Tom  Jenkins, 
whose  boyish  affection  had  grown  with  his  growth  and 
strengthened  with  his  strength. 

And  now  Nellie  was  the  affianced  bride  of  William 
Raymond,  who  had  replaced  the  little  cornelian  with 
the  engagement  ring.  At  last  the  rumor  reached  Ton) 
Jenkins,  awaking  him  from  the  sweetest  dream  he  had 
ever  known.  He  could  not  ask  Nellie  if  it  were  true, 
so  he  came  to  me ;  and  when  I  saw  how  he  grew  pale  and 
trembled,  I  felt  that  Nellie  was  not  altogether  blameless. 
But  he  breathed  no  word  of  censure  against  her ;  and 
when,  a  year  or  two  afterward,  I  saw  her  given  to  Wil 
liam  Raymond,  I  knew  that  the  love  of  two  hearts  was 
hers ;  the  one  to  cherish  and  watch  over  her,  the  other  to 
love  and  worship,  silently,  secretly,  as  a  miser  worships 
his  hidden  treasure. 


The  bridal  was  over.  The  farewells  were  over,  and 
Nellie  .had  gone, —  gone  from  the  home  whose  sunlight 
she  had  made,  and  which  she  had  left  forever.  Sadly  the 
pale,  sick  mother  wept,  and  mourned  her  absence,  listen- 
ing  in  vain  for  the  light  foot-fall  and  soft,  ringing  voice  she 
would  never  hear  again. 


ISO  THE   GILBERTS. 

Three  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  then,  far  and  near, 
the  papers  teemed  with  accounts  of  the  horrible  Norwalk 
catastrophe,  which  desolated  many  a  home,  and  wrung 
from  many  a  heart  its  choicest  treasure.  Side  by  side  they 
found  them — Nellie  and  her  husband — the  light  of  her 
brown  eyes  quenched  forever,  and  the  pulses  of  his  heart 
still  in  death ! 

I  was  present  when  they  told  the  poor  invalid  of  her 
loss,  and  even  now  I  seem  to  hear  the  bitter,  wailing  cry 
which  broke  from  her  white  lips,  as  she  begged  them  "  to 
unsay  what  they  had  said ;  and  tell  her  Nellie  was  not 
dead — that  she  would  come  back  again." 

It  could  not  be.  Nellie  would  never  return ;  and  in  six 
week's  time  the  broken-hearted  mother  was  at  rest  with 
her  child. 


AND 

ITS    CONSEQUENCES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

.NIGHT    BEPOEE    THANKSGIVING. 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  will  be  pleasant  to-morrow,"  said 
Lizzie  Dayton,  as  on  the  night  before  Thanksgiving  she 
stood  at  the  parlor  window,  watching  a  dense  mass  of 
clouds,  behind  which  the  sun  had  lately  gone  to  his  nightly 
rest. 

"I  hope  so,  too,  said  Lucy,  coming  forward,  and  join 
ing  her  sister ;  but  then  it  isn't  likely  it  will  be.  There  has 
been  a  big  circle  around  the  moon  these  three  nights, 
and,  besides  that,  I  never  knew  it  fail  to  storm  when  I 
was  particularly  anxious  that  it  should  be  pleasant ;"  and 
the  indignant  beauty  pouted  very  becomingly  at  the  in 
sult  so  frequently  offered  by  that  most  capricious  of  all 
things,  the  weather. 

"Thee  shouldn't  talk  so,  Lucy,"  said  Grandma  Day 
ton,  who  was  of  Quaker  descent,  at  the  same  time  hold 
ing  up  between  herself  and  the  window  the  long  stocking 
which  she  was  knitting.  "Doesn't  thee  know  that  when 
thee  is  finding  fault  with  the  weather,  thee  finds  fault 
with  Him  who  made  the  weather  ?  " 

"  I  do  wish,  grandma,  answered  Lucy,  "  that  I  could 


182  T1IE  TUAXKSGIVIXG  PAIiTY. 

ever  say  anything  which  did  not  furnish  you  with  a  text 
from  which  to  preach  me  a  sermon." 

Grandma  did  not  reply  directly  to  this  rather  uncivil 
speech,  but  she  continued  :  "  I  don't  see  how  the  weather 
will  hurt  thee,  if  it's  the  party  thee  is  thinking  of,  for  Mr. 
Graham's  is  only  ten  rods  or  so  from  here." 

"  I'm  not  afraid  I  can't  go,"  answered  Lucy  ;  "  but  you 
know  as  well  as  I,  that  if  the  wind  blows  enough  to  put 
out  a  candle,  father  is  so  old-maidish  as  to  think  Lizzie 
and  I  must  wear  thick  stockings  and  dresses,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  insisted  on  flannel  wrappers ! " 

"Well,"  answered  grandma,  "I  think  myself  it  will  be 
very  imprudent  for  Lizzie,  in  her  present  state  of  health, 
to  expose  her  neck  and  arms.  Thy  poor  marrn  died  with 
consumption  when  she  Avasn't  much  older  than  thee  is. 
Let  me  see, — she  was  twenty-three  the  day  she  died,  and 
thee  was  twenty-two  in  Sep " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  grandmother,"  interrupted  Lucy, 
"  don't  continually  remind  me  of  my  age,  and  tell  me  how 
much  younger  mother  was  when  she  was  married.  I  can't 
help  it  if  I  am  twenty-two,  and  not  married  or  engaged 
either.  But  I  will  be  both,  before  I  am  a  year  older." 

So  saying,  she  quitted  the  apartment,  and  repaired  to 
her  own  room. 

Ere  we  follow  her  thither,  we  will  introduce  both  her 
and  her  sister  to  our  readers.  Lucy  and  Lizzie  were  the 
only  children  of  Mr.  Dayton,  a  wealthy,  intelligent,  and 
naturally  social  man,  the  early  death  of  whose  idolized, 
beautiful  wife  had  thrown  a  deep  gloom  over  his  spirits, 
which  time  could  never  entirely  dispel.  It  was  now  sev 
enteen  years  since,  a  lonely,  desolate  widower,  at  the 
dusky  twilight  hour  he  had  drawn  closely  to  his  bosom 
his  motherless  children,  and  thought  that  but  for  them  he 
would  o-ladly  have  lain  down  by  her  whose  home  was 


NIGHT  BEFORE  THANKSGIVING.  183 

now  in  heaven.  His  acquaintances  spoke  lightly  of  hii 
grief,  saying  he  would  soon  get  over  it  and  marry  again, 
They  were  mistaken,  for  he  remained  single,  his  widowed 
mother  supplying  to  his  daughters  the  place  of  their  los't 
parent. 

In  one  thing  was  Mr.  Dayton  rather  peculiar.  Owing 
to  the  death  of  his  wife,  he  had  always  been  hi  the  habit 
of  dictating  to  his  daughters  in  various  small  matters, 
such  as  dress,  and  so  forth,  about  which  fathers  seldom 
trouble  themselves.  And  even  now  he  seemed  to  forget 
that  they  were  children  no  longer,  and  often  interfered  in 
their  plans  in  a  way  exceedingly  annoying  to  Lucy,  the 
eldest  of  the  girls,  who  was  now  twenty-two,  and  was  as 
proud,  selfish,  and  self-willed  as  she  was  handsome  and 
accomplished.  Old  maids  she  held  in  great  abhorrence, 
and  her  great  object  in  life  was  to  secure  a  wealthy  and 
distinguished  husband.  Hitherto  she  had  been  unsuccess 
ful,  for  the  right  one  had  not  yet  appeared.  Now,  how 
ever,  a  new  star  was  dawning  on  her  horizon,  in  the  per 
son  of  Hugh  St.  Leon,  of  New  Orleans.  His  fame  had 

preceded  him,  and  half  the  village  of  S were  ready 

to  do  homage  to  the  proud  millionaire,  who  would  make 
his  first  appearance  at  the  thanksgiving  party.  This,  then, 
was  the  reason  why  Lucy  felt  so  anxious  to  be  becom- 
mgly  dressed,  for  she  had  resolved  upon  a  conquest,  and 
she  felt  sure  of  success.  She  knew  she  was  beautiful. 
Her  companions  told  her  so,  her  mirror  told  her  so,  and 
her  sweet  sister  Lizzie  told  her  so,  more  than  twenty 
times  a  day. 

Lizzie  was  four  years  younger  than  her  sister,  and 
wholly  unlike  her,  both  in  personal  appearance  and  dispo 
sition.  She  had  from  childhood  evinced  a  predisposition 
to  the  disease  which  had  consigned  her  mother  to  an  early 
grave.  On  her  fair,  soft  cheek  the  rose  of  health  bad 


184  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

never  bloomed,  and  in  the  light  which  shone  from  her 
clear  hazel  eye,  her  fond  father  read,  but  too  clearly, 
"  passing  away, — passing  away." 

If  there  was  in  Lucy  Dayton's  selfish  nature  any  re 
deeming  quality,  it  was  that  she  possessed  for  her  frail 
young  sister  a  love  amounting  almost  to  adoration, 
Years  before,  she  had  trembled  as  she  thought  how 
soon  the  time  might  come  when  for  her  sister's  merry 
voice  she  would  listen  in  vain ;  but  as  month  after  month 
and  year  after  year  went  by,  and  still  among  them  Lizzie 
staid,  Lucy  forgot  her  fears,  and  dreamed  not  that  ere 
long  one,  chair  would  be  vacant, — that  Lizzie  would  be 
gone. 

Although  so  much  younger  than  her  sister,  Lizzie,  for 
more  than  a  year,  had  been  betrothed  to  Harry  Graham, 
whom  she  had  known  from  childhood.  Now,  between 
herself  and  him  the  broad  Atlantic  rolled,  nor  would  he 
return  until  the  coming  autumn,  when,  with  her  father's 
consent,  Lizzie  would  be  all  his  own. 

Alas!  alas!  ere  autumn  came 

How  many  hearts  were  weeping, 
For  her,  who  'neath  the  willow's  shade, 

Lay  sweetly,  calmly  sleeping. 


CHAPTER  H. 

THANKSGIVING    DAY. 


SLOWLY  the  feeble  light  of  a  stormy  morning  broke 
over  the  village  of  S .  Lucy's  fears  had  been  veri 
fied,  for  Thanksgiving's  dawn  was  ushered  in  by  a  fierce 
driving  storm.  Thickly  from  the  blackened  clouds  the 


THANKSGIVING  DAY.  185 

feathery  flakes  had  fallen,  until  the  earth,  far  and  near, 
was  covered  by  an  unbroken  mass  of  white,  untrodden 

snow. 

Lucy  had  been  awake  for  a  long  time,  listening  to  the 

sad  song  of  the  wind,  which  swept  howling  by  the  case- 
ment.  At  length,  with  an  impatient  frown  at  the  snow, 
which  covered  the  window-pane,  she  turned  on  her  pil 
low,  and  tried  again  to  sleep.  Her  slumbers,  however, 
were  soon  disturbed  by  her  sister,  who  arose,  and  putting 
aside  the  curtain,  looked  out  upon  the  storm,  saying,  half 
aloud,  "  Oh,  I  am.  sorry,  for  Lucy  will  be  disappointed." 

"  I  disappointed !  "  repeated  Lucy ;  "  now,  Lizzie,  why 
not  own  it,  and  say  you  are  as  much  provoked  at  the 
weather  as  I  am,  and  wish  this  horrid  storm  had  staid  in 
the  icy  caves  of  Greenland  ?  " 

" Because,"  answered  Lizzie,  "I  really  care  but  little 
about  the  party.  You  know  Harry  will  not  be  there, 
and  besides  that,  the  old,  ugly  pain  has  come  back  to 
my  side  this  morning ; "  and  even  as  she  spoke,  a  low, 
hacking  cough  fell  on  Lucy's  ear  like  the  echo  of  a  dis 
tant  knell. 

Lucy  raised  herself  up,  and  leaning  on  her  elbow  looked 
earnestly  at  her  sister,  and  fancied,  ('twas  not  all  fancy,) 
that  her  cheeks  had  grown  thinner  and  her  brow  whiter 
within  a  few  weeks.  Lizzie  proceeded  with  her  toilet, 
although  she  was  twice  obliged  to  stop  on  account  of  "  the 
ugly  pain,"  as  she  called  it. 

"  Hurry,  sister,"  said  Lucy,  "  and  you  will  feel  better 
when  you  get  to  the  warm  parlor." 

Lizzie  thought  so,  too,  and  she  accelerated  her  move 
ments  as  much  as  possible.  Just  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room,  Lucy  detained  her  a  moment  by  passing  her  arm 
caressingly  around  her.  Lizzie  well  knew  that  SQXSQ  fa- 


186  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

vor  was  wanted,  and  she  said,  "  Well,  what  is  it,  Lucy  ? 
What  do  you  wish  rne  to  give  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  answered  Lucy,  "  but  do  not  say 
anything  to  father  about  the  pain  in  your  side,  for  fear 
he  will  keep  you  at  home,  and,  worse  than  all,  make  me 
stay,  too." 

Lizzie  gave  the  required  promise,  and  then  descended 
to  the  breakfast  parlor,  where  she  found  her  grandmother, 
and  was  soon  joined  by  her  sister  and  father.  After  the 
usual  salutation  of  the  morning,  the  latter  said,  "  There 
is  every  prospect  of  our  being  alone  to-day,  for  the  snow 
is  at  least  a  foot  and  a  half  deep,  and  is  drifting  every 
moment." 

"  But,  father,"  said  Lucy,  "  that  will  not  prevent  Lizzia 
and  me  from  going  to  the  party  to-night." 

"  You  mean,  if  I  choose  to  let  you  go,  of  course,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Dayton. 

"  Why,"  quickly  returned  Lucy,  "  you  cannot  think  of 
keeping  us  at  home.  It  is  only  distant  a  few  rods,  and 
we  will  wrap  up  well." 

"I  have  no  objections  to  your  going,"  replied  Mr. 
Dayton,  "  provided  you  dress  suitably  for  such  a  night." 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  cannot  be  capricious 
enough  to  wish  us  to  be  bundled  up  in  bags." 

"  I  care  but  little  what  dress  you  wear,"  answered  Mr. 
Dayton,  "  if  it  has  what  I  consider  necessary  appendages, 
viz :  sleeves  and  waist." 

The  tears  glittered  in  Lucy's  bright  eyes,  as  she  said, 
"  Our  party  dresses  are  at  Miss  Carson's,  and  she  is  to 
Bend  them  home  this  morning." 

"  Wear  them,  then,"  answered  Mr.  Dayton,  "  provided 
they  possess  the  qualities  I  spoke  of,  for  without  those 
you  cannot  go  out  on  such  a  night  as  this  will  be." 


THANKSGIVING  DAY.  187 

Lucy  knew  that  her  dress  was  minus  the  sleeves,  and 
that  her  father  would  consider  the  waist  a  mere  apology 
for  one,  so  she  burst  into  tears  and  said,  rather  angrily. 
"I  had  rather  stay  at  home  than  go  rigged  out  as  you 
would  like  to  have  me." 

"  Very  well ;  you  can  stay  at  home,"  was  Mr.  Dayton's 
quiet  reply. 

In  a  few  moments  he  left  the  room,  and  then  Lucy's 
wrath  burst  forth  unrestrainedly.  She  called  her  father 
all  sorts  of  names,  such  as  "  an  old  granny, — an  old  fidg 
et,"  and  finished  up  her  list  with  what  she  thought  the 
most  odious  appellation  of  all,  "  an  old  maid." 

In  the  midst  of  her  tirade  the  door  bell  rang.  It  was 
the  boy  from  Miss  Carson's,  and  he  brought  the  party 
dresses.  Lucy's  thoughts  now  took  another  channel,  and 
while  admiring  her  beautiful  embroidered  muslin  and  rich 
white  satin  skirt,  she  forgot  that  she  could  not  wear  it. 
Grandma  was  certainly  unfortunate  in  her  choice  of 
words,  this  morning,  for  when  Lucy  for  the  twentieth 
time  asked  if  her  dress  were  not  a  perfect  beauty,  the 
old  Quakeress  answered,  "why  it  looks  very  decent, 
but  it  can  do  thee  no  good,  for  thy  pa  has  said  thee  can 
not  wear  it ;  besides,  the  holy  writ  reads,  '  Let  your 
adorning ' " 

Here  Lucy  stopped  her  ears,  exclaiming,  "I  do  believe, 
grandma,  you  were  manufactured  from  a  chapter  in  the 
bible,  for  you  throw  your  holy  writ  into  my  face  on  all 
occasions." 

The  good  lady  adjusted  her  spectacles,  and  replied, 
"  How  thee  talks  !  I  never  thought  of  throwing  my  bi 
ble  at  thee,  Lucy !  " 

Grandma  had  understood  her  literally^, 

Nothing  more  was  said  of  the  party,  until  dinner  time, 
slthough  there  was  a  determined  look  in  Lucy's  flashing 


188  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

eye,  which  puzzled  Lizzie  not  a  little.  Owing  to  the 
Ftorra,  Mr.  Dayton's  country  cousins  did  not,  as  was  their 
usual  custom,  come  into  town  to  dine  with  him,  and  for 
this  Lucy  was  thankful,  for  she  thought  nothing  could  be 
more  disagreeable  than  to  be  compelled  to  sit  all  day  and 
ask  Cousin  Peter  how  much  his  fatting  hogs  weighed ; 
or  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Betsey,  how  many  teeth  the  baby 
had  got ;  or,  worse  than  all  the  rest,  if  the  old  maid, 
Cousin  Berintha,  were  present,  to  be  obliged  to  be  asked 
at  least  three  times,  whether  it's  twenty-four  or  twenty- 
five  she'd  be  next  September,  and  on  saying  it  was  only 
twenty-three,  have  her  word  disputed  and  the  family  bi 
ble  brought  in  question.  Even  then  Miss- Berintha  would 
demur,  until  she  had  taken  the  bible  to  the  window,  and 
squinted  to  see  if  the  year  had  not  been  scratched  out 
and  rewritten !  Then  closing  the  book  with  a  profound 
sigh,  she  would  say,  "I  never,  now!  it  beats  all  how 
much  older  you  look !  " 

All  these  annoyances  Lucy  was  spared  on  this  day,  for 
neither  Cousin  Peter,  Elizabeth  Betsey,  or  Miss  Berintha 
made  their  appearance.  At  the  dinner  table,  Mr.  Day 
ton  remarked,  quietly,  to  his  daughters,  "  I  believe  you 
have  given  up  attending  the  party  !  " 

"Oh,  no,  father,"  said  Lucy,  "we  are  going,  Lizzie 
and  I." 

"  And  what  about  your^dress?"  sasked  Mr.  Dayton. 

Lucy  bit  her  lip  as  she  replied,  "  Why,  of  course,  we 
must  dress  to  suit  you,  or  stay  at  home.' 

Lizzie  looked  quickly  at  her  sister,  as  if  asking  how 
long  since  she  had  come  to  this  conclusion ;  but  Lucy's 
face  was  calm  and  unruffled,  betraying  no  secrets,  al 
though  her  tongue  did  when,  after  dinner,  she  found  her« 
eelf  alone  with  Lizzie  in  their  dressing-room.  A  long  con 
versation  followed,  in  which  Lucy  seemed  trying  to  per* 


THANKSGIVING  DAY.  189 

suade  Lizzie  to  do  something  wrong.  Possessed  of  the 
stronger  mind,  Lucy's  influence  over  her  sister  was  great, 
and  sometimes  a  bad  one,  but  never  before  had  she  pro 
posed  an  open  act  of  disobedience  toward  their  father, 
and  Lizzie  constantly  replied,  "  No,  no,  Lucy,  I  can't  do 
it ;  besides,  I  really  think  I  ought  not  to  go,  for  that  pain 
in  my  side  is  no  better." 

"  Nonsense,  Lizzie,"  said  Lucy.  "  If  you  are  going  to 
be  as  whimsical  as  Miss  Berintha,  you  had  better  begir 
at  once  to  dose  yourself  with  burdock  or  catnip  tea." 
Then,  again  recurring  to  the  dress,  she  continued,  "  Fa 
ther  did  not  say  we  must  not  wear  them  after  we  got 
there.  I  shall  take  mine,  any  way,  and  I  wish  you  would 
do  the  same  ;  and  then,  if  he  ever  knows  it,  he  will  not 
be  as  much  displeased  when  he  finds  that  you,  too,  are 
guilty." 

After  a  time,  Lizzie  was  persuaded,  but  her  happiness 
for  that  day  was  destroyed,  and  when  at  tea  time  her  fa 
ther  asked  if  she  felt  quite  well,  she  could  scarcely  keep 
from  bursting  into  tears.  Lucy,  however,  came  to  her 
relief,  and  said  she  was  feeling  blue  because  Harry  would 
not  be  present !  Just  before  the  hour  for  the  party,  Lucy 
descended  to  the  parlor,  where  her  father  was  reading,  in 
order,  as  she  said,  to  let  him  see  whether  her  dress  were 
fussy  enough  to  suit  him.  He  approved  her  taste,  and 
after  asking  if  Lizzie,  too,  were  dressed  in  the  same  man 
ner,  resumed  his  paper.  Ere  long,  the  covered  sleigh 
stood  at  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  Lucy  and  Lizzie 
were  in  Anna  Graham's  dressing-room,  undergoing  the 
process  of  a  second  toilet. 

Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful  than  was  Lucy  Day 
ton,  after  party  dress,  bracelets,  curls,  and  flowers  had  all 
been  adjusted.  She  probably  thought  so,  too,  for  a  smile 
of  satisfaction  curled  her  lip  as  she  saw  the  radiant  vision 


190  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

reflected  by  the  mirror.  Her  bright  eye  flashed,  and  hor 
heart  swelled  with  pride  as  she  thought,  "  Yes,  there  'a 
no  help  for  it,  I  shall  win  him,  sure ; "  then  turning  to 
Anna  Graham,  she  asked,  "  Is  that  Mr.  St.  Leon  to  be 
here  to-night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  know  he  is,"  answered  Anna,  "  and  I  pity 
him,  for  I  see  you  are  all  equipped  for  an  attack ;  but," 
continued  she,  glancing  at  Lizzie,  "  were  not  little  Lizzie's 
heart  so  hedged  up  by  brother  Hal,  I  should  say  your 
chance  was  small." 

Lucy  looked  at  her  sister,  and  a  chill  struck  her  heart 
as  she  observed  a  spasm  of  pain  which  for  an  instant  con 
tracted  Lizzie's  fair,  sweet  face.  Anna  noticed  it,  too, 
and  springing  toward  her,  said,  "  What  is  it,  Lizzie  ?  are 
you  ill  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Lizzie,  laying  her  hand  on  her  side ; 
"nothing  but  a  sharp  pain.  It  will  soon  be  better;" 
but  while  she  spoke,  her  teeth  almost  chattered  with  the 
cold. 

Oh,  Lizzie,  Lizzie ! 

For  a  short  time,  now,  we  will  leave  the  young  ladies  in 
Miss  Graham's  dressing-room,  and  transport  our  readers 
to  another  part  of  the  village. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ADA     HAKCOURT. 


IN  a  small  and  neat,  but  scantily  furnished  chamber,  a 
poor  widow  was  preparing  her  only  child,  Ada,  for  the 
party.  The  plain,  white  muslin  dress  of  two  years  old 
had  been  washed  and  ironed  so  carefully,  that  Ada  said 


ADA  HABCOUKT.  191 

it  looked  just  as  wed  as  new ;  "but  then  everything  looked 
well  on  Ada  Harcourt,  who  was  highly  gifted,  both  with 
intellect  and  beauty.  After  her  dress  was  arranged,  she 
went  to  the  table  for  her  old  white  gloves,  the  cleaning 
of  which  had  cost  her  much  trouble,  for  her  mother  did 
not  seem  to  be  at  all  interested  in  them,  so  Ada  did  as 
well  as  she  could.  As  she  was  about  to  put  them  on,  her 
mother  returned  from  a  drawer,  into  the  recesses  of  which 
she  had  been  diving,  and  from  which  she  brought  a  paper, 
carefully  folded. 

"Here,  Ada,"  said  she,  "you  need  not  wear  those 
gloves ;  see  here — "  and  she  held  up  a  pair  of  handsome 
initts  a  fine  linen  handkerchief,  and  a  neat  little  gold  pin. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother  !  "  said  Ada,  joyfully,  "  where 
did  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  /  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Harcourt,  "  and  that  is 
enough." 

After  a  moment's  thought,  Ada  knew,  too.  The  little 
hoard  of  money  her  mother  had  laid  by  for  a  warm  win 
ter  shawl,  had  been  spent  for  her.  From  Ada's  lustrous 
blue  eyes  the  tears  were  dropping,  as,  twining  her  arm 
around  her  mother's  neck,  she  said,  "Naughty,  naughty 
mother ! "  but  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The 
sleigh  which  Anna  Graham  had  promised  to  send  for 
Ada,  had  come ;  so  dashing  away  her  tears,  and  adjust 
ing  her  new  mitts  and  pin,  she  was  soon  warmly  wrapped 
up,  and  on  her  way  to  Mr.  Graham's. 


<:  In  the  name  of  the  people,  who  is  that  ?  "  said  Lucy 
Dayton,  as  Anna  Graham  entered  the  dressing-room,  ac 
companied  by  a  bundle  of  something  securely  shielded 
from  the  cold. 


1  92  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAliTT. 

The  removal  of  the  hood  soon  showed  Lucy  who  it  was, 
and,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  she  turned  inqui 
ringly  to  a  young  lady  who  was  standing  near.  To  her 
look,  the  young  lady  replied,  "  A  freak  of  Anna's  I  sup 
pose.  She  thinks  a  great  deal  of  those  Harcourts." 

An  impatient  "  pshaw !  "  burst  from  Lucy  lips,  accom 
panied  with  the  words,  "  I  wonder  who  she  thinks  want* 
to  associate  with  that  plebeian  !  " 

The  words,  the  look,  and  the  tone  caught  Ada's  eye 
and  ear,  and  instantly  blighted  her  happiness.  In  the 
joy  and  surprise  of  receiving  an  invitation  to  the  party, 
it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  might  be  slighted 
there,  and  she  was  not  prepared  for  Lucy's  unkind  re 
mark.  For  an  instant  the  tears  moistened  her  long  silken 
eyelashes,  and  a  deeper  glow  mantled  her  usually  bright 
cheek ;  but  this  only  increased  her  beauty,  which  tended 
to  increase  Lucy's  vexation.  Lucy  knew  that  in  her  own 
circle  there  was  none  to  dispute  her  claim;  but  she  knew, 
too,  that  in  a  low-roofed  house,  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  there  dwelt  a  poor  sewing  woman,  whose  only 
daughter  was  famed  for  her  wondrous  beauty.  Lucy  had 
frequently  seen  Ada  in  the  streets,  but  never  before  had 
she  met  her,  and  she  now  determined  to  treat  her  with 
the  utmost  disdain. 

Not  so  was  Lizzie  affected  by  the  presence  of  "  the  ple 
beian."  Mrs.  Harcourt  had  done  plain  sewing  for  her 
father,  and  Lizzie  had  frequently  called  there  for  the  work. 
In  this  way  an  acquaintance  had  been  commenced  be 
tween  herself  and  Ada,  which  had  ripened  into  friendship. 
Lizzie,  too,  had  heard  the  remark  of  her  sister,  and,  anx 
ious  to  atone,  as  ilir  as  possible,  for  the  unkind  ness,  she 
went  up  to  Ada,  expressed  her  pleasure  at  seeing  her 
there,  and  then,  as  the  young  ladies  were  about  descend 
ing  to  the  parlors,  she  offered  her  arm,  saying,  "  I  will 


ADA  HAECOUET.  193 

accompany  you  down,  but  I  have  no  doubt  scores  of  beaux 
will  quickly  take  you  off  my  hands." 

The  parlors  were  nearly  filled  when  our  party  reached 
them,  and  Ada,  half  tremblingly,  clung  to  Lizzie's  arm, 
while,  with  queen-like  grace  and  dignity,  Lucy  Dayton 
moved  through  the  crowded  drawing-rooms.  Her  quick" 
eye  had  scanned  each  gentleman,  but  her  search  was  fruit 
less.  He  was  not  there,  and  during  the  next  half  hour 
she  listened  rather  impatiently  to  the  tide  of  flattery 
poured  into  her  ear  by  some  one  of  her  admirers.  Sud 
denly  there  was  a  stir  at  the  door,  and  Mr.  St.  Leon  was 
announced.  He  was  a  tall,  fine  looking  man,  probably 
about  twenty-five  years  of  age.  The  expression  of  his 
face  was  remarkably  pleasing,  and  such  as  would  lead  an 
entire  stranger  to  trust  him,  sure  that  his  confidence 
would  not  be  misplaced.  His  manners  were  highly  pol 
ished,  and  in  his  dignified,  self-possessed  bearing,  there 
was  something  which  some  called  pride,  but  in  all  the 
wide  world  there  was  not  a  more  generous  heart  than 
that  of  Hugh  St.  Leon. 

Lucy  for  a  moment  watched  him  narrowly,  and  then 
her  feelings  became  perfectly  calm,  for  she  felt  sure  that 
now,  for  the  first  time,  she  looked  upon  her  future  hus 
band!  Ere  long,  Anna  Graham  approached,  accompa 
nied  by  the  gentleman,  whom  she  introduced,  and  then 
turning,  left  them  alone.  Lucy  would  have  given  almost 
anything  to  have  known  whether  St.  Leon  had  requested 
an  introduction,  but  no  means  of  information  were  at 
hand,  so  she  bent  all  her  energies  to  be  as  agreeable  as 
possible  to  the  handsome  stranger  at  her  side,  who  each 
moment  seemed  more  and  more  pleased  with  her. 

Meantime,  in  another  part  of  the  room  Lizzie  and  Ada 
were  the  center  of  attraction.  The  same  kindness  which 
prompted  Anna  Graham  to  invite  Ada,  was  careful  to  see 

13 


194  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

that  she  did  not  feel  neglected.  For  this  purpose,  Anna's 
brother,  Charlie,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  had  been  instructed 
to  pay  her  particular  attention.  This  he  was  not  unwil 
ling  to  do,  for  he  knew  no  reason  why  she  should  not  be 
treated  politely,  even  if  she  were  a  sewing  woman's  daugh 
ter.  Others  of  the  company,  observing  how  attentive 
Charlie  and  Lizzie  were  to  the  beautiful  girl,  felt  disposed 
to  treat  her  graciously,  so  that  to  her  the  evening  was 
passing  very  happily. 

When  St.  Leon  entered  the  room,  the  hum  of  voices 
prevented  Ada  from  hearing  his  name ;  neither  was  she 
aware  of  his  presence  until  he  had  been  full  fifteen  min 
utes  conversing  with  Lucy.  Then  her  attention  was  di 
rected  toward  him  by  Lizzie.  For  a  moment,  Ada  gazed 
as  if  spell-bound ;  then  a  dizziness  crept  over  her,  and  she 
nervously  grasped  the  little  plain  gold  ring  which  encir 
cled  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand ! 

Turning  to  Lizzie,  who,  fortunately,  had  not  noticed 
her  agitation,  she  said,  "What  did  you  say  his  name 
was  ?  " 

"  St.  Leon,  from  ]STew  Orleans,"  replied  Lizzie. 

"  Then  I  'm  not  mistaken,"  Ada  said,  inaudibly. 

At  that  moment  Anna  Graham  approached,  and  whis 
pered  something  to  Ada,  who  gave  a  startled  look,  say 
ing,  "  Oh,  no,  Miss  Anna ;  you  would  not  have  me  make 
myself  ridiculous." 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Anna ;  "neither  will  you  do 
so,  for  some  of  your  songs  you  sing  most  beautifully.  Do 
come  ;  I  wish  to  surprise  my  friends." 

Ada  consented  rather  unwillingly,  and  Anna  led  her 
toward  the  music-room,  followed  by  a  dozen  or  more,  all 
of  whom  wondered  what  a  sewing  woman's  daughter 
biew  about  music.  On  their  way  to  the  piano,  they 


ADA  HAECOUET.  195 

passed  near  St.  Leon  and  Lucy,  the  former  of  whom 
started  as  his  eye  fell  upon  Ada. 

"  I  did  not  think  there  was  another  such  face  in  the 
world,"  said  he,  apparently  to  himself;  then  turning  to 
Lucy,  he  asked  who  that  beautiful  girl  was. 

"  Which  one  ?  "  asked  Lucy ;  "  there  are  many  beauties 
here  to-night." 

"  I  mean  the  one  with  the  white  muslin,  and  dark  au 
burn  curls,"  said  St.  Leon. 

Lucy's  brow  darkened,  but  she  answered,  "That? 
oh,  that  is  Ada  Harcourt.  Her  mother  is  a  poor  sewing 
woman.  I  never  met  Ada  before,  and  cannot  conceive 
how  she  came  to  be  here ;  but  then  the  Grahams  are  pe 
culiar  in  their  notions,  and  I  suppose  it  was  a  whim  of 
Anna's." 

Without  knowing  it,  St.  Leon  had  advanced  some  steps 
toward  the  door  through  which  Ada  had  disappeared. 
Lucy  followed  him,  vexed  beyond  measure,  that  the  des 
pised  Ada  Harcourt  should  even  have  attracted  his  at 
tention. 

"  Is  she  as  accomplished  as  handsome  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  answered  Lucy,  with  a  forced 
laugh.  "  Poverty,  ignorance,  and  vulgarity  go  together, 
usually,  I  believe." 

St.  Leon  gave  her  a  rapid,  searching  glance,  in  which 
disappointment  was  mingled,  but  before  he  could  reply, 
there  was  the  sound  of  music.  It  was  a  sweet,  bird-like 
voice  which  floated  through  the  rooms,  and  the  song  it 
sang  was  a  favorite  one  of  St.  Leon's,  who  was  passionately 
fond  of  music. 

"Let  us  go  nearer,"  said  he  to  Lucy,  who,  nothing 
loth,  accompanied  him,  for  she,  too,  was  anxious  to 
know  who  it  was  that  thus  chained  each  listener  into 
silence. 


196  THE   THANKSGIVING   PARTY. 

St.  Leon  at  length  got  a  sight  of  the  singer,  and  said, 
with  evident  pleasure,  "  Why,  it's  Miss  Harcourt !" 

"  Miss  Harcourt !  Ada  Harcourt !"  exclaimed  Lucy, 
(C  Impossible  !  Why,  her  mother  daily  toils  for  the  bread 
they  eat !" 

But  if  St.  Leon  heard  her,  he  answered  not.  His 
Benses  were  locked  in  those  strains  of  music  which  re 
called  memories  of  something,  he  scarcely  knew  what, 
and  Lucy  found  herself  standing  alone,  her  heart  swelling 
with  anger  toward  Ada,  who  from  that  time  was  her 
hated  rival.  The  music  ceased,  but  scores  of  voices  were 
loud  in  their  call  for  another  song ;  and  again  Ada  sang, 
but  this  time  there  were  in  the  tones  of  her  voice  a  thrill 
ing  power,  for  which  those  who  listened  could  not  ac 
count.  To  Ada,  the  atmosphere  about  her  seemed 
charmed,  for  though  she  never  for  a  moment  raised  her 
eyes,  she  well  knew  who  it  was  that  leaned  upon  the  pi 
ano,  and  looked  intently  upon  her.  Again  the  song  was 
finished,  and  then,  at  St.  Leon's  request,  he  was  intro 
duced  to  the  singer,  who  returned  his  salutation  with  per 
fect  self-possession,  although  her  heart  beat  quickly,  as 
she  hoped,  yet  half  feared,  that  he  would  recognize  her. 
But  he  did  not,  and  as  they  passed  together  into  the  next 
room,  he  wondered  much  why  the  hand  which  lay  upon 
his  arm  trembled  so  violently,  while  Ada  said  to  herself, 
u'Tis  not  strange  he  doesn't  know  me  by  this  name." 
Whether  St.  Leon  knew  her  or  not,  there  seemed  about 
her  some  strong  attraction,  wliich  kept  him  at  her  side 
the  remainder  of  the  evening,  greatly  to  Lucy  Dayton's 
mortification  and  displeasure. 

"I'll  be  revenged  on  her  yet,"  she  muttered.  "The 
upstart !  I  wonder  where  she  learned  to  play." 

This  last  sentence  was  said  aloud;  and  Lizzie,  who  was 
standing  near,  replied,  "Her  father  was  once  wealthy, 


ADA   HAECOURT.  Ifi? 

and  Ada  had  the  best  of  teachers.     Since  she  has  lived  in 
S ,  she  has  occasionally  practiced  on  Anna's  piano." 

"  I  think  I'd  keep  a  piano  for  paupers  to  play  on,  "  was 
Lucy's  contemptuous  reply,  uttered  with  no  small  degree 
of  bitterness,  for  at  that  moment  St.  Leon  approached  her 
with  the  object  of  her  dislike  leaning  upon  his  arm. 

Ada  introduced  Lizzie  to  St.  Leon,  who  offered  her  his 
other  arm,  and  the  three  kept  together  until  Lizzie,  utter 
ing  a  low,  sharp  cry  of  pain,  leaned  heavily  as  if  for  sup 
port  against  St.  Leon.  In  an  instant  Lucy  was  at  her  side ; 
but  to  all  her  anxious  inquiries  Lizzie  could  only  reply,  as 
she  clasped  her  thin,  white  hand  over  her  side,  "The 
pain, —  the  pain, —  take  me  home." 

"  Our  sleigh  has  not  yet  come,"  said  Lucy.  "  Oh,  what 
shaU  we  do  ?  " 

"  Mine  is  here,  and  at  your  command,  Miss  Dayton," 
said  St.  Leon. 

Lucy  thanked  him,  and  then  proceeded  to  prepare  Lis- 
zie,  who,  chilled  through  and  through  by  the  exposure  of 
her  chest  and  arms,  had  borne  the  racking  pain  in  her 
side  as  long  as  possible,  and  now  lay  upon  the  sofa  as 
helpless  as  an  infant.  When  all  was  ready  St.  Leon  lifted 
her  in  his  arms,  and  bearing  her  to  the  sleigh,  stepped 
lightly  in  with  her,  and  took  his  seat. 

"  It  is  hardly  necessary  for  you  to  accompany  us  home," 
said  Lucy,  overjoyed  beyond  measure,  though,  to  find 
that  he  was  going. 

"Allow  me  to  be  the  judge,"  answered  St.  Leon ;  and 
other  than  that,  not  a  word  was  spoken  until  they  reached 
Mr.  Dayton's  door.  Then,  carefully  carrying  Lizzie  into 
the  house,  he  was  about  to  leave,  when  Lucy  detained 
him  to  thank  him  for  his  kindness,  adding  that  she  hoped 
to  see  him  again. 

"  Certainly,  I   shall  call  to-morrow,"  was  his  reply,  as 


198  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

he  sprang  down  the  steps,  and  entering  his  sleigh,  waa 
driven  back  to  Mr.  Graham's. 

He  found  the  company  about  dispersing,  and  meeting 
Ada  in  the  hall,  asked  to  accompany  her  home.  Ada's 
pride  for  a  moment  hesitated,  and  then  she  answered  in 
the  affirmative.  When  St.  Leon  had  seated  her  in  his 
sleigh,  he  turned  back,  on  pretext  of  looking  for  some 
thing,  but  in  reality  to  ask  Anna  Graham  where  Ada 
lived,  as  he  did  not  wish  to  question  her  on  the  subject. 

When  they  were  nearly  home,  St.  Leon  said,  "  Miss 
Harcourt,  have  you  always  lived  in  S ?  " 

"  We  have  lived  here  but  two  years,"  answered  Ada ; 
and  St.  Leon  continued :  "  I  cannot  rid  myself  of  the  im 
pression  that  somewhere  I  have  met  you  before." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Ada,  "  when,  and  where  ?  " 

But  his  reply  was  prevented  by  the  sleigh's  stopping  at 
Mrs.  Harcourt's  door.  As  St.  Leon  bade  Ada  good  night, 
he  whispered,  "  I  shall  see  you  again." 

Ada  made  no  answer,  but  going  into  the  house  where 
her  mother  was  waiting  for  her,  she  exclaimed,  "Oh, 
mother,  mother,  I've  seen  him !  —  he  was  there  !  —  he 
brought  me  home !  " 

"  Seen  whom  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Harcourt,  alarmed  at  her 
daughter's  agitation. 

"  Vhy,  Hugh  St.  Leon !  "  replied  Ada. 

"  St.  Leon  in  town !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Harcourt,  her  eye 
lighting  up  with  joy. 

'Twas  only  for  a  moment,  however,  for  the  remembrance 
of  what  she  was  when  she  knew  St.  Leon,  and  what  she 
now  was,  recurred  to  her,  and  she  said  calmly,  "  I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  that  childish  fancy. 

"  Forgotten !  "  said  Ada  bitterly ;  and  then  as  she  TQ> 
called  the  unkind  remark  of  Lucy  Dayton,  she  burst  into 
a  passionate  fit  of  weeping. 


ADA  HAKCOUKT.  190 

Aiter  a  time,  Mrs.  Harcourt  succeeded  in  soothing  her, 
and  then  drew  from  her  all  the  particulars  of  the  party, 
St.  Leon  and  all.  When  Ada  had  finished,  her  mother 
kissed  her  fair  cheek,  saying,  "  I  fancy  St.  Leon  thinks  as 
much  of  little  Ada  now  as  he  did  six  years  ago ; "  but  Ada 
could  not  think  so,  though  that  night,  in  dreams,  she  was 
again  happy  in  her  old  home  in  the  distant  city,  while  at 
her  side  was  St.  Leon,  who  even  then  was  dreaming  of 
a  childish  face  which  had  haunted  him  six  long  years. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LUCY. 

WE  left  Lizzie  lying  upon  the  sofa,  where  St.  Leon  had 
laid  her.  After  he  was  gone,  Lucy  proposed  calling  their 
father  and  sending  for  a  physician,  but  Lizzie  objected, 
saying  she  should  be  better  when  she  got  warm.  During 
the  remainder  of  that  night,  Lucy  sat  by  her  sister's  bed 
side,  while  each  cry  of  pain  which  came  from  Lizzie's  lips 
fell  heavily  upon  her  heart,  for  conscience  accused  her  of 
being  the  cause  of  all  this  suffering.  At  length  the  weary 
night  watches  were  finished,  but  the  morning  light  showed 
more  distinctly  Lizzie's  white  brow  and  burning  cheeks. 
She  had  taken  a  severe  cold,  which  had  settled  upon  her 
lungs,  and  now  she  was  paying  the  penalty  of  her  first  act 
of  disobedience. 

Mr.  Dayton  had  sent  for  the  old  family  physician,  who 
understood  Lizzie's  constitution  perfectly.  He  shook  his 


200  TIIE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

head  as  lie  said,  "How  came  she  by  such  a  cold  ? 
she  go  tin*  party  '?  " 

"  Yres,  sir,11  replied  j\Ir.  Day  (on. 

"And  not  half  dressed,  I'll  warrant,"  said  the  gruff  old 
doctor. 

Lucy  turned  ]>alo  as  her  father  answered,  quickly  and 
truthfully,  as  lie  thought,  "No,  sir,  she  Avas  properly 
dressed," 

L5//ie  heard  it,  and  though  speaking  was  painful,  she 
said,  "  Forgive  me,  father,  forgive  me  :  1  disobeyed  you. 
1  wore  the  dress  you  said  I  must  not  wear!  " 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  escaped  Mr.  Dayton,  who, 
glancing  at  Lucy,  read  in  her  guilty  face  what  Liy./ie.  gen 
erously  would  not  betray. 

"Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy,1'  said  he,  "ho.w  could  yon  do  SO?" 

Lucy  could  only  reply  through  her  tears.  She  was  sin- 
cercly  sorry  that  by  her  means  Li/./.ie  had  been  brought 
into  danger;  but  when  the  doctor  said  that  by  careful 
management  she  might  soon  bo  better,  all  feelings  of 
regret  vanished,  and  she  again  began  to  think  of  St.  Leon 
and  his  promise  to  call.  A  look  at  herself  in  the  mirror 
showed  her  that,  she  Mas  looking  pale  and  jaded,  and  she 
half  hoped  he  would  not  come.  However,  as  the  day 
\vore  on,  she  grew  nervous  as  she  thought  lie  possibly 
might  be  spending  his  time  with  the  hated  Ada.  I  Jut  he 
was  not,  and  at  about  four  o'clock  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
door.  I'Yom  an  upper  window  Lucy  saw  St.  Leon,  and 
M'hen  Bridget  Came  up  for  her,  she  asked  if  the  parlor  was 
well  darkened. 

"An'  sure  it's  darker  nor  a  pocket,"  said  Bridget,"  "an' 

he  couldn't  see  a  haporth  was  ye  twice  as  sorry  lookin'." 

So  bathing  her  liice  in  cologne,  in  order  to  force  a  glow, 

Lucy  descended  to  the  parlor,  which  she  found    to  be  a* 

dark  an  liridget    had  said  it  was.     St.  Leon  received  her 


201 

very  kindly,  for  the  devotion  she  had  the  night  before 
shown  for  her  sister,  had  partially  counterbalanced  the 
Bpitefulness  he  had  observed  in  her  manner  when  speaking 
of  Ada  at  the  party.  Notwithstanding  Bridget's  preeau 
tiona,  he  saw,  too,  that  she  was  pale  and  spiritless,  but  he 
attributed  it  to  her  anxiety  for  her  sister,  and  this  raised 
her  in  his  estimation.  Lucy  divined  his  thoughts,  and  in 
her  efforts  to  appear  amiable  and  agreeable,  a  half  hour 
passed  quickly  away.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  im- 
fortunately  asked,  in  a  very  sneering  tone,  "  how  long  since 
he  had  seen  the  sewing  girl  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  Miss  Harcourt,"  said  St.  Leon,  coolly, 
"  I've  not  seen  her  since  I  left  her  last  night  at  her  mother's 
door." 

"  You  must  have  been  in  danger  of  upsetting  if  you  at 
tempted  to  turn  round  in  Mrs.  Harcourt's  spacious  yard," 
was  Lucy's  next  remark. 

"  I  did  not  attempt  it,"  said  St.  Leon.  "  I  carried  Miss 
Ada  in  my  arms  from  the  street  to  the  door." 

The  tone  and  manner  were  changed.  Lucy  knew  it, 
and  it  exasperated  her  to  say  something  more,  but  she 
was  prevented  by  St.  Leon's  rising  to  go.  As  Lucy  ac 
companied,  him  to  the  door,  she  asked  "  how  long  he  in 
tended  to  remain  in  S . " 

"I  leave  this  evening,  in  the  cars  for  New  Haven," 
said  he. 

"  This  evening  ?  "  repeated  Lucy  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
"  and  will  you  not  return  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  the  business  on  which  I  go  is  successful,"  an 
swered  St.  Leon. 

"A  lady  in  question,  perchance,"  remarked  Lucy  play- 
fully. 

"  You  interpret  the  truth  accurately,"  said  St.  Leon, 
and  with  a  cold,  polite  bow,  he  was  gone. 


202  THE  THAXKSG1VIJSTG  PARTY. 

"  Why  was  lie  going  to  New  Haven  ?  "  This  was  tha 
thought  which  now  tortured  Lucy.  He  had  confessed 
that  a  lady  was  concerned  in  his  going,  but  who  was  she, 
and  what  was  she  to  him  ?  Any  way,  there  was  a  com 
fort  in  knowing  that  Ada  Harcourt  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it ! 

Mistaken  Lucy !  Ada  Harcourt  had  everything  to  do 
with  it ! 


CHAPTER  Y. 

UNCLE    ISRAEL. 

THE  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  cars,  and  on  through  the 
valley  of  the  Connecticut,  the  New  Haven  tram  was 
speeding  its  way.  In  one  corner  of  the  car  sat  St.  Leon, 
closely  wrapped  hi  cloak  and  thoughts,  the  latter  of  which 
occasionally  suggested  to  him  the  possibility  that  his  was 
a  Tomfool's  errand ;  "  but  then,"  thought  he,  "  no  one 
will  know  it  if  I  fail,  and  if  I  do  not,  it  is  worth  tho 
trouble." 

When  the  train  reached  Hartford,  a  number  of  passen 
gers  entered,  all  bound  for  New  Haven.  Among  them 
was  a  comical-looking,  middle  aged  man,  whom  St.  Leon 
instantly  recognized  as  a  person  whom  he  had  known 
when  in  college,  in  New  Haven,  and  whom  the  students 
familiarly  called  "  Uncle  Israel."  The  recognition  was 
mutual,  for  Uncle  Israel  prided  himself  on  never  forget 
ting  a  person  he  had  once  seen.  In  a  few  moments  St. 
Leon  was  overwhelming  him  with  scores  of  questions,  but 
Uncle  Israel  was  a  genuine  Yankee,  and  never  felt  hap 
pier  than  when  engaged  in  giving  or  guessing  information. 


UNCLE  ISRAEL.  203 

At  length  St.  Leon  asked,  "Does  Ada  Linwood  fulfil] 
the  promise  of  beauty  which  g!ie  gave  as  a  child  ?  " 

"  Ada  who  ?  "  said  Uncle  Israel. 

"  Linwood,"  repeated  St.  Leon,  arguing  from  the  jog 
'm  Uncle  Israel's  memory  that  all  was  not  right. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  daughter  of  Harcourt  Linwood,  he 
that  was  said  to  be  so  rich  ?  " 

"  The  same,"  returned  St.  Leon.     "  Where  are  they  ?  " 

Uncle  Israel  settled  himself  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  a  long  story  on  hand,  and  intends  to  tell  it  at  his  lei 
sure.  Filling  his  mouth  with  an  enormous  quid  of  tobacco, 
he  commenced:  "Better  than  four  years  ago  Linwood 
smashed  up,  smack  and  clean;  lost  everything  he  had, 
and  the  rest  had  to  be  sold  at  vandue.  But  what  was 
worse  than  all,  seein'  he  was  a  fine  feller  in  the  main,  and 
I  miess  didn't  mean  to  fail,  he  took  sick,  and  in  about  a 

O  77 

month  died." 

"  And  what  became  of  his  widow  and  orphan  ?  "  asked 
St.  Leon,  eagerly. 

"  Why,  it  wasn't  nateral,"  said  Uncle  Israel,  "  that  they 
should  keep  the  same  company  they  did  before,  and  they's 
too  plaguy  stuck  up  to  keep  any  other;  so  they  moved 
out  of  town  and  supported  themselves  by  takin'  in  sewin' 
or  ironin',  I  forgot  which." 

"  But  where  are  they  now  ?  "  asked  St.  Leon. 

Uncle  Israel  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  re 
plied,  "  The  Lord  knows,  I  suppose,  but  Israel  don't." 

"Did  they  suffer  at  all  ?  "  asked  St.  Leon. 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  stuck  to  them,  but  they  sarved  me 
real  mean,"  answered  Uncle  Israel. 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,"  said  Uncle  Israel,  "  I  don't  know  why, 
but  somehow  I  never  thought  of  matrimony  till  I  got  a 


204  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

glimpse  of  Ada  at  her  father's  vandue.  To  be  sure,  I'd 
seen  her  before,  but  then  she  was  mighty  big  feelin',  and 
I  couldn't  ha'  touched  her  with  a  hoe-handle,  but  now 
't  was  different.  I  bought  their  house.  I  was  rich  and 
they  was  poor." 

Involuntarily  St.  Leon  clenched  his  fist,  as  Uncle  Israel 
continued :  "  I  seen  to  getting  them  a  place  in  the  coun. 
try,  and  then  tended  to  'em  generally  for  more  than  six 
months,  when  I  one  day  hinted  to  Mrs.  Linwood  that  1 
would  like  to  be  her  son-in-law.  Christopher !  how  quick 
her  back  was  up,  and  she  gave  me  to  understand  that  I 
was  lookin'  too  high !  'Twas  no  go  with  Ada,  and  after 
a  while  I  proposed  to  the  mother.  Then  you  ought  to 
seen  her  !  She  didn't  exactly  turn  me  out  o'door,  but  she 
coolly  told  me  I  wasn't  wanted  there.  But  I  stuck  to 
her,  and  kept  kind  o'  offerin'  myself,  till  at  last  they  cut 
stick  and  cleared  out,  and  I  couldn't  find  them,  high  nor 
low.  I  hunted  for  more  than  a  year,  and  at  last  found 
them  in  Hartford.  Thinkin'  may  be,  they  had  come  to,  I 
proposed  again,  and  kept  hangin'  on  till  they  gave  me  the 
slip  again ;  and  now  I  don't  know  where  they  be,  but  I 
guess  they've  changed  their  name." 

At  this  point,  the  cars  stopped,  until  the  upward  train 
should  pass  them,  and  St.  Leon,  rising,  bade  his  compan 
ion  good  evening,  saying  "  he  had  changed  his  mind,  and 
should  return  to  Hartford  on  th«  other  train." 


EXPLANATION.  205 

CHAPTER  VI. 

EXPLANATION. 

Six  years  prior  to  the  commencement  of  our  story,  New 
Haven  boasted  not  a  better  or  wealthier  citizen  than  Har- 
court  Linwood,  of  whose  subsequent  failure  and  death  we 
have  heard  from  Uncle  Israel.  The  great  beauty  of  his 
only  child,  Ada,  then  a  girl  of  nearly  thirteen,  was  the 
subject  of  frequent  comment  among  the  circle  in  which  he 
moved.  No  pains  were  spared  with  her  education,  and 
many  were  the  conjectures  as  to  what  she  would  be  when 
time  had  matured  her  mind  and  beauty. 

Hugh  St.  Leon,  of  New  Orleans,  then  nineteen  years 
of  age,  and  a  student  at  Yale,  had  frequently  met  Ada  at 
the  house  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Durant,  whose  eldest  daugh 
ter,  Jenny,  was  about  her  own  age.  The  uncommon 
beauty  of  the  child  greatly  interested  the  young  south 
erner,  and  once,  in  speaking  of  his  future  prospects  to  his 
Bister,  he  playfully  remarked,  "  Suppose  I  wait  for  Ada 
Linwood." 

"  You  cannot  do  better,"  was  the  reply,  and  the  con 
versation  terminated. 

The  next  evening  there  was  to  be  a  child's  party  at  the 
house  of  Mrs  Durant,  and  as  Hugh  was  leaving  the  house, 
Jenny  bounded  after  him,  saying,  "  Oh,  Uncle  Hugh, 
you'll  come  to-morrow  night,  won't  you?  No  matter  if 
you  are  a  grown  up  man,  in  the  junior  class,  trying  to 
raise  some  whiskers !  You  will  be  a  sort  of  restraint,  and 
keep  us  from  getting  too  rude.  Besides,  we  are  going  to 
have  tableaux,  and  I  want  you  to  act  the  part  of  bride 
groom  in  one  of  the  scenes." 

"  Who  is  to  be  the  bride  ?  "  asked  Hugh. 


200  THE  THANKSGIVING  TARTY. 

"  Ada  Linwood.     Now  I  know  you'll  come,  won't  you  ?  M 

"  I'll  see,"  was  Hugh's  answer,  as  he  walked  away. . 

Jenny  well  knew  that  "  I'll  see  "  meant  "  yes,"  and  ty- 
ing  on  her  bonnet,  she  hastened  off  to  tell  Ada  that  Uncle 
Hugh  would  be  present,  and  would  act  the  part  of  bride 
groom  in  the  scene  where  she  was  to  be  bride. 

"  What !  that  big  man  ?  "  said  Ada,  "How  funny !  " 

Before  seven  the  next  evening  Mrs.  Durant's  parlors 
were  filled,  for  the  guests  were  not  old  enough  or  fashiona 
ble  enough  to  delay  making  their  appearance  until  morn 
ing.  Hugh  was  the  last  to  arrive,  for  which  Jenny  scolded 
him  soundly,  saying  they  were  all  ready  for  tableaux. 
"  But  come,  now,"  said  she,  "  and  let  me  introduce  you  to 
the  bride." 

In  ten  minutes  more  the  curtain  rose,  and  Hugh  St. 
Leon  appeared  with  Ada  on  his  arm,  standing  before  a 
gentleman  in  clerical  robes,  who  seemed  performing  the 
marriage  ceremony.  Placing  a  ring  on  Ada's  third  fin 
ger,  St.  Leon,  when  the  whole  was  finished,  took  advan 
tage  of  his  new  relationship,  and  kissed  the  lips  of  the 
bride.  Amid  a  storm  of  applause  the  curtain  dropped, 
and  as  he  led  the  blushing  Ada  away,  he  bent  down,  and 
pointing  to  the  ring,  whispered,  "  Wear  it  until  some  fu 
ture  day,  when,  by  replacing  it,  I  shall  make  you  really 
my  little  wife." 

The  words  were  few  and  lightly  spoken,  but  they  touched 
the  heart  of  the  young  Ada,  awakening  within  her  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  which  she  never  before  had  dreamed. 
Frequently,  after  that,  she  met  St.  Leon,  who  sometimes 
teased  her  about  being  his  wife ;  but  when  he  saw  how 
painfully  embarrassed  she  seemed  on  such  occasions,  he 
desisted. 

The  next  year  he  was  graduated,  and  the  same  day  on 
yliich  he  received  the  highest  honors  of  his  class  was  long 


EXPLANATION.  207 

remembered  with  heartfelt  sorrow,  for  ere  the  city  clocks 
tolled  the  hour  of  midnight,  he  stood  with  his  orphan 
niece,  Jenny,  weeping  over  the  inanimate  form  of  his  sis 
ter,  Mrs.  Durant,  who  had  died  suddenly  in  a  fit  of  apo 
plexy.  Mr.  Durant  had  been  dead  some  years,  and  as 
Jenny  had  now  no  relatives  in  New  Haven,  she  accom 
panied  her  uncle  to  his  southern  home.  Long  and  pas 
sionately  she  wept  on  Ada's  bosom,  as  she  bade  her  fare 
well,  promising  never  to  forget  her,  but  to  write  her  three 
pages  of  foolscap  every  week.  To^  do  Jenny  justice,  we 
must  say  that  this  promise  was  faithfully  kept  for  a  whole 
month,  and  then,  with  thousands  of  its  sisterhood,  it  dis 
appeared  into  the  vale  of  broken  promises  and  resolutions. 

She  still  wrote  occasionally,  and  at  the  end  of  each  epis 
tle  there  was  always  a  long  postscript  from  Hugh,  which 
Ada  prized  almost  as  much  as  she  did  Jenny's  whole  let 
ter  ;  and  when  at  last  matters  changed,  the  letter  becom 
ing  Hugh's  and  the  postscript  Jenny's,  she  made  no  ob 
jection,  even  if  she  felt  any.  At  the  time  of  her  father's 
failure  and  death,  a  long  unanswered  letter  wTas  lying  in 
her  port-folio,  which  was  entirely  forgotten  until  weeks 
after,  when,  in  the  home  which  Uncle  Israel  so  disinter 
estedly  helped  them  to  procure,  she  and  her  mother  were 
sewing  for  the  food  whicli  they  ate.  Then  a  dozen  times 
was  an  answer  commenced,  blotted  with  tears,  and  finally 
destroyed,  until  Ada,  burrying  her  face  in  her  mother's 
lap,  sobbed  out,  "  Oh,  mother,  I  cannot  do  it.  I  cannot 
write  to  tell  them  how  poor  we  are,  for  I  remember  that 
Jenny  was  proud,  and  laughed  at  the  school-girls  whose 
fathers  were  not  rich." 

So  the  letter  was  never  answered,  and  as  St.  Leon  about 
that  time  started  on  a  tour  through  Europe,  he  knew  no- 
tiring  of  their  change  of  circumstances.  On  his  way  home, 
ho  had  hi  Paris  met  with  Harry  Graham,  who  had  been 


208  THE  THANKSGIVING  I'AKTY. 

his  classmate,  and  who  now  won  from  him  a  promise  that 
on  his  return  to  America  he  would  visit  his  parents,  in 

S .  He  did  so,  and  there,  as  we  have  seen,  met  with 

Ada  Harcourt,  whose  face,  voice,  and  manner  reminded 
him  so  strangely  of  the  Ada  he  had  known  years  before, 
and  whom  he  had  never  forgotten. 

As  the  reader  will  have  supposed,  the  sewing  woman, 
whose  daughter  Lucy  Dayton  so  heartily  despised,  w^as 
none  other  than  Mrs.  Linwood,  of  New  Haven,  who  had 
taken  her  husband's  first  name  in  order  to  avoid  the  per 
secutions  of  Uncle  Israel.  The  day  following  the  party, 
St.  Leon  spent,  in  making  inquiries  concerning  Mrs  Har 
court,  and  the  information  thus  obtained  determined  him 
to  start  at  once  for  Ne\v  Haven,  hi  order  to  ascertain  if 
his  suspicions  were  correct. 

The  result  of  his  journey  we  already  know.  Still  he  re 
solved  not  to  make  himself  known,  immediately,  but  to 
wait  until  he  satisfied  himself  that  Ada  was  as  good  as 
beautiful.  And  then  ? 

A  few  more  chapters  will  tell  us  what  then  • 


CHAPTER  YH. 

A   MANEUVER. 

THE  grey  twilight  of  a  cold  December  afternoon  was 

creeping  over  the  village  of  S ,  when  Ada  Harcourt 

left  her  seat  by  the  window,  where,  the  live-long  day,  she 
had  sat  stitching  till  her  heart  was  sick  and  her  eyes  were 
dim.  On  the  faded  calico  lounge  near  the  fire,  lay  Mrs. 
Harcourt,  who  for  several  days  had  been  unable  to  work, 


A   MANEUVER.  209 

on  account  of  a  severe  cold  which  seemed  to  have  settled 
111  her  face  and  eyes. 

"  There,"  said  Ada,  as  she  brushed  from  her  gingham 
apron  the  bits  of  thread  and  shreds  of  cotton,  "  There,  it 
is  done  at  last,  and  now  before  it  is  quite  dark  I  will  take 
it  home." 

"No,  not  to-night,  child,"  said  Mrs  Harcourt;  "to 
morrow  will  do  just  as  well." 

"  But,  mother,  answered  Ada,"  you  know  Mrs.  Dayton 
always  pays  as  soon  as  the  work  is  delivered,  and  what  I 
have  finished  will  come  to  two  dollars  and  a  half,  which 
will  last  a  long  time,  and  we  shall  not  be  obliged  to  take 
any  from  the  sum  laid  by  to  pay  our  rent ;  besides,  you 
have  had  nothing  nourishing  for  a  long  time ;  so  let  me 
go,  and  on  my  way  home  I  will  buy  you  something  nice 
for  supper." 

Mrs.  Harcourt  said  no  more,  but  the  tears  fell  from  her 
aching  eyes  as  she  thought  how  hard  her  daughter  was 
obliged  to  labor,  now  that  she  was  unable  to  assist  her. 
In  a  moment  Ada  was  in  the  street.  The  little  alley  in 
which  she  lived  was  soon  traversed,  and  she  was  about 
turning  into  Main  street,  when  rapid  footsteps  approached 
her,  and  St.  Leon  appeared  at  her  side,  saying,  "  Good 
evening,  Miss  Harcourt ;  allow  me  to  relieve  you  of  that 
bundle." 

And  before  she  could  prevent  it,  he  took  from  her 
hands  the  package,  while  he  continued,  "  May  I  ask  how 
far  you  are  walking  to-night  ?  " 

Ada  hesitated  a  moment,  but  quickly  forcing  down  her 
pride,  she  answered,  "  Only  as  far  as  Mr.  Dayton's.  I  am 
carrying  home  some  work." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  he,  "  then  I  can  have  your  company 
all  the  way,  for  I  am  going  to  inquire  after  Lizzie." 

They  soon  reached  their  destination,  and  their  ring  at 
14 


210  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

the  door  was  not,  as  usual,  answered  by  Bridget,  but  by 
Lucy  herself,  whose  sweet  smile,  as  she  greeted  St.  Leon, 
changed  into  an  angry  scowl  when  she  recognized  hia 
companion. 

"  Ada  Harcourt !  "  said  she,  and  Ada,  blushing  scarlet, 

began :   "  I  have  brought ,"  but  she  was  interrupted 

by  St.  Leon,  who  handed  Lucy  the  bundle,  saying,  "  Here 
is  your  work,  Miss  Dayton,  and  I  hope  it  will  suit  you, 
for  we  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  it." 

Lucy  tried  to  smile  as  she  took  the  work,  and  then  open 
ing  the  parlor  door  she  with  one  hand  motioned  St.  Leon 
to  enter,  while  with  the  other  she  held  the  hall  door  ajar, 
as  if  for  Ada  to  depart.  A  tear  trembled  on  Ada's  long 
eyelashes,  as  she  timidly  asked,  "  Can  I  see  your  grand 
mother  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Dayton,  I  presume  you  mean,"  said  Lucy, 
haughtily. 

Ada  bowed,  and  Lucy  continued :  "  She  is  not  at  home 
just  at  present." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  you  can  pay  me  for  the  work,"  said 
Ada. 

The  scowl  on  Lucy's  face  grew  darker,  as  she  replied, 
"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  grandma's  hired  help.  Come 
to-morrow  and  she  will  be  here.  (How  horridly  cold 
this  open  door  makes  the  hall !  ") 

Ada  thought  of  the  empty  cupboard  at  home,  and  of 
her  pale,  sick  mother.  Love  for  her  conquered  all  other 
feelings,  and  in  a  choking  voice  she  said,  "  Oh,  Miss  Day 
ton,  if  you  will  pay  it  you  will  confer  a  great  favor  on 
me,  for  mother  is  sick,  and  we  need  it  so  much  !  " 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  parlor.  St.  Leon  waa 
approaching,  and  with  an  impatient  gesture,  Lucy  opened 
the  opposite  door,  saying  to  Ada,  "  Come  in  here." 

The  tone  was  so  angry  that,  under  any  other  circuni 


A  MANEUVER.  211 

stances,  Ada  would  have  gone  away.  ISTow,  however; 
she  entered,  and  Lucy,  taking  out  her  purse,  said,  "  Ho^v 
much  is  the  sum  about  which  you  make  so  much  fuss  ?  " 

"Two  dollars  and  a  half,"  answered  Ada. 

"  Two  dollars  and  a  half,"  repeated  Lucy;  and  then,  as 
&  tear  fell  from  Ada's  eye,  she  added,  contemptuously, 
•'  It  is  a  small  amount  to  cry  about." 

Ada  made  no  reply,  and  was  about  leaving  the  room, 
when  Lucy  detained  her,  by  saying,  "  Pray,  did  you  ask 
Mr.  St.  Leon  to  accompany  you  here  and  bring  your 
bundle  ?  " 

"  Miss  Dayton,  you  know  better, — you  know  I  did  not," 
answered  Ada,  as  the  fire  of  insulted  pride  flashed  from 
her  dark  blue  eyes,  which  became  almost  black,  while  her 
cheek  grew  pale  as  marble. 

Instantly  Lucy's  manner  changed,  and  in  a  softened 
tone  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  did  not ; 
and  now,  as  a  friend,  I  warn  you  against  receiving  any 
marks  of  favor  from  St.  Leon." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Ada,  and  Lucy  con 
tinued  :  "  You  have  sense  enough  to  know,  that  when  a 
man  of  St.  Leon's  standing  shows  any  preference  for  a 
girl  in  your  circumstances,  it  can  be  from  no  good  design." 

"  You  judge  him  wrongfully — you  do  not  know  him," 
said  Ada;  and  Lucy  answered,  "Pray,  where  did  you 
learn  so  much  about  him  ?  " 

Ada  only  answered  by  rising  to  go. 

"  Here,  this  way,"  said  Lucy,  and  leading  her  through 
an  outer  passage  to.  the  back  door,  she. added,  "I do  it  to 
save  your  good  name.  St.  Leon  is  undoubtedly  waiting 
for  you,  and  I  would  not  trust  my  own  sister  with  him, 
were  she  a  poor  sewing  girl ! " 

The  door  was  shut  in  Ada's  face,  and  Lucy  returned  to 
the  parlor,  where  she  found  her  father  entertaining  hei 


212  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

visitor.  Seating  herself  on  a  crimson  ottoman,  she  pre* 
pared  to  do  the  agreeable,  when  St.  Leon  rising,  said, 
"  Excuse  my  short  call,  for  I  must  be  going.  Where  have 
you  left  Miss  Harcourt  ?  " 

"  I  left  her  at  the  door,"  answered  Lucy,  "  and  she  is 
probably  hall'  way  to  '  Dirt  Alley '  by  this  time,  so  do  not 
be  in  haste." 

But  he  was  in  haste,  for  when  he  looked  on  the  fast 
gathering  darkness  without,  and  thought  of  the  by  streets 
and  lonely  alleys  through  which  Ada  must  pass  on  her 
way  home,  he  felt  uneasy,  and  bidding  Miss  Dayton  good 
night,  he  hurried  away. 

Meantime,  Ada  had  procured  the  articles  she  wished 
for,  and  proceeded  home,  with  a  heart  which  would  have 
been  light  as  a  bird,  had  not  the  remembrance  of  Lucy's 
insulting  language  rung  in  her  ears.  Mrs.  Harcourt  saw 
that  all  was  not  right,  but  she  forbore  making  any  inqui 
ries  until  supper  was  over.  Then  Ada,  bringing  a  stool 
to  her  mother's  side,  and  laying  her  head  on  her  lap,  told 
everything  which  had  transpired  bet  we  en  herself,  St.  Leon, 
and  Lucy. 

Scarcely  was  her  story  finished,  when  there  was  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and  St.  Leon  himself  entered  the  room.  He  hail 
failed  in  overtaking  Ada,  and  anxious  to  know  of  her  safe 
return,  had  determined  to  call.  The  recognition  between 
himself  and  Mrs.  Harcourt  was  mutual,  but  for  reasons 
of  their  own,  neither  chose  to  make  it  apparent,  and  Ada 
introduced  him  to  her  mother  as  she  would  have  done 
any  stranger.  St.  Leon  possessed  in  an  unusual  degree 
the  art  of  making  himself  agreeable,  and  in  the  animated 
conversation  which  ensued,  Mrs.  Harcourt  forgot  that  she 
was  poor, — forgot  her  aching  eyes ;  while  Ada  forgot  ev 
erything  save  that  St.  Leon  was  present,  and  that  she  was 


A  MANEUVER.  213 

again  listening  to  his  voice,  which  charmed  har  now  even 
more  than  in  the  olden  tune. 

During  the  evening,  St.  Leon  managed,  in  various 
ways,  to  draw  Ada  out  on  all  the  prominent  topics  of  the 
day,  and  he  felt  pleased  to  find,  that  amid  all  her  poverty 
she  did  not  neglect  the  cultivation  of  her  mind.  A  part 
of  each  day  was  devoted  to  study,  which  Mrs.  Harcourt, 
who  was  a  fine  scholar,  superintended. 

It  was  fast  merging  toward  the  hour  when  phantoms  walk 
abroad,  ere  St.  Leon  remembered  that  he  must  go.  As 
he  was  leaving,  he  said  to  Ada,  "  I  have  a  niece,  Jenny 
about  your  age,  whom  I  think  you  would  like  very  much. 

Oh  how  Ada  longed  to  ask  for  her  old  playmate,  but  a 
look  from,  her  mother  kept  her  silent,  and  in  a  moment 
St.  Leon  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 

COUSIN     BERINTHA     AND     LUCY'S     PARTY. 

COUSIN  Berintha,  whom  Lucy  Dayton  so  much  dis« 
liked  and  dreaded,  was  a  cousin  of  Mr.  Dayton,  and  was 
a  prim,  matter-of-fact  maiden  of  fifty,  or  thereabouts. 
That  she  was  still  in  a  state  of  single  blessedness,  was 
partially  her  own  fault,  for  at  twenty  she  was  engaged  to 
the  son  of  a  wealthy  farmer  who  lived  near  her  father. 
But,  alas !  ere  the  wedding  day  arrived,  there  came  to 
the  neighborhood  a  young  lady  from  Boston,  in  whose 
presence  the  beauty  of  the  country  girl  grew  dim,  as  do 
the  stars  in  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

Berintha  had  a  plain  face,  but  a  strong  heart,  and  when 


214  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

she  saw  that  Amy  Holbrook  was  preferred,  with  steady 
hand  and  unflinching  nerve,  she  wrote  to  her  recreant 
lover  that  he  was  free.  And  now  Amy,  to  whom  the 
false  knight  turned,  took  it  into  her  capricious  head  that 
she  could  not  marry  a  farmer, — she  had  always  fancied  a 

physician ;  and  if  young  B would  win  her,  he  must 

first  secure  the  title  of  M.  D.  He  complied  with  her  re 
quest,  'and  one  week  from  the  day  on  which  he  received 
his  diploma,  Berintha  read,  with  a  slightly  blanched 
cheek,  the  notice  of  his  marriage  with  the  Boston 
beauty.  Three  years  from  that  day  she  read  the  an 
nouncement  of  Amy's  death,  and  in  two  years  more 
she  refused  the  doctor's  offer  to  give  her  a  home  by  his 
lonely  fireside,  and  a  place  in  his  widowed  heart.  All 
this  had  the  effect  of  making  Berintha  rather  cross 
but  she  seldom  manifested  her  spite  toward  any  one  ex- 
cept  Lucy,  whom  she  seemed  to  take  peculiar  delight  in 
teasinir,  and  whose  treatment  of  herself  was  not  such  as 

<!D~ 

would  warrant  much  kindness  in  return. 

Lizzie  she  had  always  loved,  and  when  Harry  Graham 
went  away,  it  was  on  Berintha's  lap  that  the  young  girl 
sobbed  out  her  grief,  wondering,  when  with  her  tears  Be 
rintha's  were  mingled,  how  one  apparently  so  cold  and  pas 
sionless  could  sympathize  with  her.  To  no  one  had  Be 
rintha  ever  confided  the  story  of  her  early  love.  Mr. 
Dayton  was  a  school-boy  then,  and  as  but  little  was  said 
of  it  at  the  time,  it  faded  entirely  from  memory ;  and 
when  Lucy  called  her  a  "  crabbed  old  maid,"  she  knew 
not  of  the  disappointment  which  had  clouded  every  joy, 
and  embittered  a  whole  lifetime. 

At  the  first  intelligence  of  Lizzie's  illness,  Berintha 
came,  and  though  her  prescriptions  of  every  kind  of  herb 
tea  in  the  known  world  were  rather  numerous,  and  hei 
doses  of  the  same  were  rather  large,  and  though  her  stiff 


COUSIN  BEKINTHA  AND  LUCY'S  PAKTT.  215 

cap,  sharp  nose,  and  curious  little  eyes,  which  saw  every 
thing,  were  exceedingly  annoying  to  Lucy,  she  proved 
herself  an  invaluable  nurse,  warming  up  old  Dr.  Benton's 
heart  into  a  glow  of  admiration  of  her  wonderful  skill ! 
Hour  after  hour  she  sat  by  Lizzie,  bathing  her  burning 
brow,  or  smoothing  her  tumbled  pillow.  Night  after 
night  she  kept  her  tireless  watch,  treading  softly  around 
the  sick-room,  and  lowering  her  loud,  harsh  voice  to  a 
whisper,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  uneasy  slumbers  of 
the  sick  girl,  who,  under  her  skillful  nursing,  gradually 
grew  better. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  dear,  good  cousin,"  said  Liz 
zie,  one  day,  when  a  nervous  headache  had  been  coaxed 
away  by  what  Berintha  called  her  "  mesmeric  passes ; " 
and  "  Was  there  ever  such  a  horrid  bore,"  said  Lucy,  on 
the  same  day,  when  Cousin  Berintha  "  thought  she  saw  a 
white  hair  in  Lucy's  raven  curls  !  "  adding,  by  way  of 
consolation,  "  It  wouldn't  be  anything  strange,  for  I  be 
gan  to  grow  gray  before  I  was  as  old  as  you." 

"  And  that  accounts  for  your  head  being  just  the  color 
of  wool,"  angrily  retorted  Lucy,  little  dreaming  of  the 
bitter  tears  and  sleepless  nights  which  had  early  blanched 
her  cousin's  hair  to  its  present  whiteness. 

For  several  winters  Lucy  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving 
a  large  party,  and  as  she  had  heard  that  St.  Leon  was  soon 
going  south,  she  felt  anxious  to  have  it  take  place  ere  he 
left  town.  But  what  should  she  do  with  Berintha,  who 
showed  no  indications  of  leaving,  though  Lizzie  was  much 
better. 

"  I  declare,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  that  woman  is  enough 
to  worry  the  life  out  of  me.  I  '11  speak  to  Liz  about  it 
this  very  day." 

Accordingly,  that  afternoon,  when  alone  with  her  sis 
ter,  she  said,  "  Lizzie,  is  it  absolutely  necessary  that  Be- 


f  1  G  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAETY. 

rintha  should  stay  here  any  longer,  to  tuck  you  up,  and 
feed  you  sage  tea  through  a  straw  ?  " 

Lizzie  looked  inquiringly  at  her  sister,  who  continued, 
"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I?m  tired  of  having  her  around, 
and  must  manage  some  way  to  get  rid  of  her  before  next 
week,  for  I  mean  to  have  a  party  Thursday  night." 

Lizzie's  eyes  now  opened  in  astonishment,  as  she  ex 
claimed,  "  A  party !  oh,  Lucy,  wait  until  I  get  well." 

"  You'll  be  able  by  that  time  to  come  down  stairs  in 
your  crimson  morning-gown,  which  becomes  you  so  well," 
answered  Lucy. 

"But  father's  away,"  rejoined  Lizzie;  to  which  Lucy 
replied,  "  So  much  the  better,  for  now  I  shan't  be  obliged 
to  ask  any  old  things.  I  told  him  I  meant  to  have  it 
while  he  was  gone,  for  you  know  he  hates  parties.  But 
what  shall  I  do  with  Berintha?  " 

"  Why,  what  possible  harm  can  she  do  ?  "  asked  Lizzie. 
"  She  would  enjoy  it  very  much,  I  know ;  for  in  spite  of 
her  oddities,  she  likes  society." 

"  Well,  suppose  she  does ;  nobody  wants  her  round, 
prating  about  white  hairs  and  mercy  knows  what.  Come, 
you  tell  her  you  don't  need  her  services  any  longer — 
that's  a  good  girl."  • 

There  wTas  a  look  of  mischief  in  Lizzie's  eye,  and  a  merry 
smile  on  her  lip,  as  she  said,  "  Why,  don't  you  know  that 
father  has  invited  her  to  spend  the  winter,  and  she  has 
accepted  the  invitation  ?  " 

"  Invited  her  to  spend  the  winter ! "  repeated  Lucy, 
while  the  tears  glittered  in  her  bright  eyes.  "  What  does 
he  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,"  answered  Lizzie,  "it  is  very  lonely  at  Cousin 
John's,  and  his  wife  makes  more  of  a  servant  of  Berintha 
than  she  does  a  companion,  so  father,  out  of  pity,  asked  - 
her  to  stay  with  us,  and  she  showed  her  good  taste  by 
accepting." 


COUSIN  BEIUNTHA  AND  LUCY'S  PABTT.  217 

"I'll  hang  myself  in  the  woodshed  before  spring  —  see 
if  I  don't !  "  and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  Lucy  wept 
aloud,  while  Lizzie,  lying  back  upon  her  pillow,  laughed 
immoderately  at  her  sister's  distress. 

"There's  a  good  deal  to  laugh  at,  I  think,"  said  Lucy, 
more  angrily  than  she  usually  addressed  her  sister.  "  If 
you  have  any  pity,  do  devise  some  means  of  getting  rid 
of  her,  for  a  time,  at  least." 

"  "Well,  then,"  answered  Lizzie,  "  she  wants  to  go  home 
for  a  few  days,  in  order  to  make  some  necessary  prepara 
tions  for  staying  with  us,  and  perhaps  you  can  coax  her 
to  go  now,  though  I  for  one  would  like  to  have  her  stay. 
Everybody  knows  she  is  your  cousin,  and  no  one  will 
think  less  of  you  for  having  her  here." 

"  But  I  won't  do  it,"  said  Lucy,  "  and  that  settles  it. 
Your  plan  is  a  good  one,  and  I  '11  get  her  off —  see  if  I 
don't ! " 

The  next  day,  which  was  Saturday,  Lucy  was  unusually 
kind  to  her  cousin,  giving  her  a  collar,  offering  to  fix  her 
cap,  and  doing  numerous  other  little  things,  which  greatly 
astonished  Berintha.  At  last,  when  dinner  was  over,  she 
said,  "  Come,  cousin,  what  do  you  say  to  a  sleigh  ride 
this  afternoon  ?  I  haven't  been  down  to  Elizabeth  Bet 
sey's  in  a  good  while,  so  suppose  we  go  to-day." 

Berintha  was  taken  by  surprise,  but  after  a  moment 
she  said  just  what  Lucy  hoped  she  would  say,  viz  :  that 
she  was  wanting  to  go  home  for  a  few  days,  and  if  Lizzie 
were  only  well  enough,  she  would  go  now. 

"  Oh  she  is  a  great  deal  better/'  said  Lucy,  "  and  you 
can  leave  her  as  well  as  not.  Dr.  Benton  says  I  am 
almost  as  good  a  nurse  as  you,  and  I  will  take  good  care 
of  her,- -besides,  I  really  think  you  need  rest;  so  go, 
If  you  wish  to,  and  next  Saturday  I  will  come  round  after 
you." 


218  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTT 

Accordingly,  Berintha,  who  suspected  nothing,  was 
coaxed  into  going  home,  and  when  at  three  o'clock  the 
sleigh  was  said  to  be  ready,  she  kissed  Lizzie  good-by, 
ind  taking  her  seat  by  the  side  of  Lucy,  was  driven  rap 
idly  toward  her  brother's  house. 


"  There  !  haven't  I  managed  it  capitally  ! »»  exclaimed 
Lucy,  as  she  reentered  her  sister's  room,  after  her  ride ; 
"  but  the  bother  of  it  is,  I've  promised  to  go  round  next 
Saturday,  and  bring  not  only  Berintha,  but  Elizabeth 
Betsey  and  her  twins  !  Won't  it  be  horrible  !  However, 
the  party'll  be  over,  so  I  don't  care." 

Cousin  Berintha  being  gone,  there  was  no  longer  any 
reason  why  the  party  should  be  kept  a  secret,  and  before 
nightfall  every  servant  in  the  house  was  discussing  it, 
Bridget  saying,  "  Faith,  an'  I  thought  it  was  mighty  good 
she  was  gettin'  with  that  woman." 

Mrs.  Dayton  was  highly  indignant  at  the  trick  which 
she  plainly  saw  had  been  put  upon  Berintha,  but  Lucy 
only  replied,  "  that  she  wished  it  were  as  easy  a  matter 
to  get  rid  of  grandma !  " 

On  Monday  cards  of  invitation  to  the  number  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  were  issued,  and  when  Lizzie,  in  looking 
them  over,  asked  why  Ada  Harcourt  was  left  out,  Lucy 
replied,  that  "  she  guessed  she  wasn't  going  to  insult  her 
guests  by  inviting  a  sewing  girl  with  them.  Anna  Gra 
ham  could  do  so,  but  nobody  was  going  to  imitate  her." 

"Invite  her,  then,  for  my  s$ke,  and  in  my  name," 
pleaded  Lizzie,  but  Lucy  only  replied,  "  I  shall  do  no  such 
thing ; "  and  thus  the  matter  was  settled. 

Amid  the  hurry  and  preparation  for  the  party,  day* 


COUSIN  BEKINTHA  AND  LUCY'S  PARTY.  219 

glided  rapidly  away,  and  Thursday  morning  came,  bright, 
beautiful,  and  balmy,  almost,  as  an  autumnal  day. 

"  Isn't  this  delightful !  "  said  Lucy,  as  she  stepped  out 
upon  the  piazza,  and  felt  the  warm  southern  breeze  upon 
her  cheek.  "It's  a  wonder,  though,"  she  continued, 
14  that  madam  nature  didn't  conjure  up  an  awful  storm  for 
my  benefit,  as  she  usually  does !  " 

Before  night,  she  had  occasion  to  change  her  mind  con 
cerning  the  day. 

Dinner  was  over,  and  she  in  Lizzie's  room  was  comb- 
ing  out  her  long  curls,  and  trying  the  effect  of  wearing 
them  entirely  behind  her  ears.  Suddenly  there  was  the 
sound  of  sleigh  bells,  which  came  nearer,  until  they 
stopped  before  the  door.  Lucy  flew  to  the  window,  and 
in  tones  of  intense  anger  and  surprise,  exclaimed,  "  N"ow, 
heaven  defend  us  !  here  is  Cousin  John's  old  lumber  sleigh 
and  rackabone  horse,  with  Berintha  and  a  hair  trunk,  a 
red  trunk,  two  bandboxes,  a  carpet-bag,  a  box  full  of 
herbs,  and  a  pillow-case  full  of  stockings.  What  does  it 
all  mean  ?  " 

She  soon  found  out  what  it  all  meant,  for  Berintha  en- 
tored  the  room  in  high  spirits.  Kissing  Lizzie,  she  next 
advanced  toward  Lucy,  saying,  "  You  did  n't  expect  me, 
I  know;  but  this  morning  was  so  warm  and  thawing, 
that  John  said  he  knew  the  sleighing  would  all  be  gono 
by  Saturday,  so  I  concluded  to  come  to-day." 

Lucy  was  too  angry  to  reply,  and  rushing  from  the 
room,  she  closed  the  door  after  her,  with  a  force  which 
fairly  made  the  windows  rattle.  Berintha  looked  inqui 
ringly  at  Lizzie,  who  felt  inadequate  to  an  explanation ; 
so  Berintha  knew  nothing  of  the  mattei  until  she  de 
scended  to  the  kitchen,  and  there  learned  the  whole. 
Now,  if  Lucy  had  treated  her  cousin  politely  and  good* 
naturedly,  she  would  have  saved  herself  much  annoyance, 


220  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

but  on  the  contrary,  she  told  her  that  she  was  neither  ex 
pected  nor  wanted  there;  that  parties  were  never  in« 
tended  for  "  such  old  things ; "  and  that  now  she  wag 
there,  she  hoped  she  would  stay  in  her  own  room,  unless 
she  'should  happen  to  be  wanted  to  wait  on  the  table ! 

This  speech,  of  course,  exasperated  Berintha,  but  she 
made  no  reply,  although  there  was  on  her  face  a  look  of 
quiet  determination,  which  Lucy  mistook  for  tacit  acqui 
escence  in  her  proposal. 

Five — six — seven — eight — struck  the  little  brass  clock, 
and  no  one  had  come  except  old  Dr.  Benton,  who,  being 
a  widower  and  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,  was  invi 
ted,  as  Lucy  said,  for  the  purpose  of  beauing  grandma ! 
Lizzie,  in  crimson  double-gown,  and  soft,  warm  shawl,  was 
reclining  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor,  the  old  doctor  mutter 
ing  about  carelessness,  heated  rooms,  late  hours,  &c. 
Grandma,  in  rich  black  silk  and  plain  Quaker  cap,  was 
hovering  near  her  favorite  child,  asking  continually  if  she 
were  too  hot,  or  too  cold,  or  too  tired,  while  Lucy,  in 
white  muslin  dress  and  flowing  curls,  flitted  hither  and 
thither,  fretting  at  the  servants,  or  ordering  grandma,  and 
occasionally  tapping  her  sister's  pale  cheek,  to  see  if  she 
could  not  coax  some  color  into  it. 

"  You'll  live  to  see  it  whiter  still,"  said  the  doctor,  who 
was  indignant  at  finding  his  patient  down  stairs. 

And  where  all  this  time  was  Berintha  ?  The  doctor 
asked  this  question,  and  Lucy  asked  this  question,  while 
Lizzie  replied,  that  "  she  was  in  her  room," 

"  And  I  hope  to  goodness  she'll  stay  there,"  said  Lucy, 

Dr.  Benton's  gray  eyes  fastened  upon  the  amiable 
young  lady,  who,  by  way  of  explanation,  proceeded  to  re' 
late  her  maneuvers  for  keeping  "  the  old  maid  "  from  the 
party. 

We  believe  we  have  omitted  t»  say  that  Lucy  had 


COUSIN  BEKINTHA  AND  LUCY'S  PAETY.        221 

some  well  founded  hopes  of  being  one  day,  together  with 
her  sister,  heiress  of  Dr.  Benton's  property,  which  was 
considerable.  He  was  a  widower,  and  had  no  relatives. 
He  was  also  very  intimate  with  Mr.  Dayton's  family,  al 
ways  evincing  a  great  partiality  for  Lucy  and  Lizzie,  and 
had  more  than  once  hinted  at  the  probable  disposal  of  hia 
wealth.  Of  course,  Lucy,  in  his  presence,  was  all  amia 
bility,  and  though  he  was  usually  very  far  sighted,  he  but 
partially  understood  her  real  character.  Something,  how 
ever,  in  her  remarks  concerning  Berintha,  displeased  him. 
Lucy  saw  it,  but  before  she  had  tune  for  any  thought  on 
the  subject,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a  dozen  or  more  of 
guests  entered. 

The  parlors  now  began  to  fill  rapidly.  Ere  long,  St. 
Leon  came,  and  after  paying  his  compliments  to  Lucy,  he 
iook  his  station  between  her  and  the  sofa,  on  which  Liz 
zie  sat.  So  delighted  was  Lucy  to  have  him  thus  near, 
that  she  forgot  Berintha,  until  that  lady  herself  appeared 
in  the  room,  bowing  to  those  she  knew,  and  seating  her 
self  on  the  sofa,  very  near  St.  Leon.  The  angry  blood 
rushed  in  torrents  to  Lucy's  face,  and  St.  Leon,  who  saw 
something  was  wrong,  endeavored  to  divert  her  mind  by 
asking  her  various  questions. 

At  last  he  said,  "  I  do  not  see  Miss  Harcourt.  Where 
is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  expected,"  answered  Lucy,  carelessly. 

"Ah ! "  said  St.  Leon  ;  and  Berintha,  touching  his  arm, 
rejoined,  "  Of  course  you  could  not  think  Ada  Harcourt 
would  be  invited  here  !  " 

"  Indeed !  Why  not  ?  »  asked  St.  Leon,  and  Berintha 
continued :  "  To  be  sure,  Ada  is  handsome,  and  Ada  ia 
accomplished,  but  then  Ada  is  poor,  and  consequently 
can't  come ! " 

"  But  I  see  no  reason  why  poverty  should  debar  hey 


222  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

from  good  society,"  said  St.  Leon ;  and  Berintha,  witn  an 
exultant  glance  at  Lucy,  who,  if  possible,  would  have 
paralyzed  her  tongue,  replied,  "Why,  if  Ada  were  pres 
ent,  she  might  rival  somebody  in  somebody's  good  opinion. 
Wasn't  that  what  you  said,  Cousin  Lucy  ?  Please  correct 
me,  if  I  get  wrong."  i 

Lucy  frowned  angrily,  but  made  no  reply,  for  Berintha 
had  quoted  her  very  words.  After  a  moment's  pause,  she 
proceeded :  "  Yes,  Ada  is  poor ;  so  though  she  can  come 
to  the  front  door  with  a  gentleman,  she  cannot  go  out 
that  way,  but  must  be  led  to  a  side  door  or  back  door ; 
which  was  it,  Cousin  Lucy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  answered 
Lucy ;  and  Berintha,  in  evident  surprise,  exclaimed,  "  Why, 
don't  you  remember  when  Ada  came  here  with  a  gentle 
man, —  let  me  see,  who  wTas  it? — well,  no  matter  who 
'twas, —  she  came  with  a  gentleman, —  he  was  ushered  into 
the  parlor,  while  you  took  her  into  a  side  room,  then  into  a 
side  passage,  and  out  at  the  side  door,  kindly  telling  her 
to  beware  of  the  gentleman  in  the  parlor,  who  could  want 
nothing  good  of  sewing  girls !  " 

"  You  are  very  entertaining  to-night,"  said  Lucy ;  to 
which  Berintha  replied,  "  You  did  not  think  I  could  be 
so  agreeable,  did  you,  when  you  asked  me  to  keep  out  of 
sight  this  evening,  and  said  that  such  old  fudges  as  grand 
ma  and  I  would  appear  much  better  in  our  rooms,  ta 
king  snuff,  and  nodding  at  each  other  over  our  knitting 
work  ?  " 

Lucy  looked  so  distressed  that  Lizzie  pitied  her,  and 
touching  Berintha,  she  said,  "  Please  don't  talk  any 
more." 

At  that  moment  supper  was  announced,  and  after  it 
was  over,  St.  Leon  departed,  notwithstanding  Lucy's  ur 
gent  request  that  he  would  remain  longer.  As  the  street 


COUSIN  BEEINTHA  AND  LUCY'S  PAIITY.  225 

door  closed  after  him,  she  felt  that  she  would  gladly  have 
seen  every  other  guest  depart,  also.  A  moody  fit  came 
on,  and  the  party  would  have  been  voted  a  failure,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  timely  interference  of  Dr.  Bent  on  and 
Berintha.  Together  they  sought  out  any  who  seemed 
neglected,  entertaining  them  to  the  best  of  their  ability, 
and  leaving  with  every  one  the  impression  that  they  were 
the  best  natured  couple  in  the  world.  At  eleven  o'clock, 
Lizzie,  wearied  out,  repaired  to  her  chamber.  Her  de 
parture  was  the  signal  for  others,  and  before  one  o'clock 
the  last  good-night  was  said,  the  doors  locked,  the  silver 
gathered  up,  the  tired  servants  dismissed,  and  Lucy,  in 
her  sister's  room,  was  giving  vent  to  her  wrath  against 
Berintha,  the  party,  St.  Leon,  and  all. 

Scolding,  however,  could  do  her  no  good,  and  ere  long, 
throwing  herself  undressed  upon  a  lounge,  she  fell  asleep, 
and  dreamed  that  grandma  was  married  to  the  doctor, 
that  Berintha  had  become  her  step-mother,  and,  worse 
than  all,  that  Ada  Harcourt  was  Mrs.  St.  Leon. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A     WEDDING     AT    ST.     LUKE'S. 

THE  day  but  one  following  the  party,  as  Lucy  was  do 
ing  some  shopping  down  street,  she  stepped  for  a  moment 
into  her  dress-maker's,  Miss  Carson's,  where  she  found 
three  or  four  of  her  companions,  all  eagerly  discussing 
what  seemed  to  be  quite  an  interesting  topic.  As  Lucy 
entered,  one  of  them,  turning  toward  her,  said,  "  Oh, 
isn't  it  strange?  Or  have  'nt  you  heard ?  » 


224  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

"  Heard  what  ?  "  asked  Lucy ;  and  her  companion  r^ 
plied,  "Why,  Ada  Harcourt  is  going  to  be  married. 
Miss  Carson  is  making  her  the  most  beautiful  traveling 

dress,  with  silk  hat  to  match " 

"  Besides  three  or  four  elegant  silk  dresses,"  chimed  in 
another. 

"  And  the  most  charming  morning-gown  you  ever  saw 
—  apple  green,  and  dark  green,  striped  —  and  lined  with 
pink  silk,"  rejoined  a  third. 

By  this  time  Lucy  had  sunk  into  the  nearest  chair. 
The  truth  had  flashed  upon  her,  as  it  probably  has  upon 
you  ;  but  as  she  did  not  wish  to  betray  her  real  emotions, 
she  forced  a  little  bitter  laugh,  and  said,  "  St.  Leon,  I 
suppose,  is  the  bridegroom." 

"  Yes ;  who  told  you  ?  "  asked  her  companion. 
"  Oh,  I've  seen  it  all  along,"  answered  Lucy,  carelessly. 
"  He  called  with  her  once  at  our  house !  " 

"  But  you  did  n't  invite  her  to  your  party,"  said  mis 
chievous  Bessie  Lee,  who  loved  dearly  to  tease  Lucy  Day 
ton.  "  You  did  n't  invite  her  to  your  party,  and  so  he 
left  early,  and  I  dare  say  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Harcourt's 
and  proposed,  if  he  had  n't  done  so  before.  Now,  don't 
you  Avish  you'd  been  more  polite  to  Ada  ?  They  say  he's 
got  a  cousin  south,  as  rich  and  handsome  as  he  is,  and  if 
you'd  only  behaved  as  you  should,  who  knows  what  might 
have  happened ! " 

Lucy  deigned  Bessie  no  reply,  and  turning  to  another 
young  lady,  asked,  "  When  is  the  wedding  to  be  ?  " 

"  Next  Thursday  morning,  in  the  church,"  was  the  an 
swer  ;  and  Bessie  Lee  again  interposed,  saying,  "  Come, 
Lucy,  I  don't  believe  you  have  ever  returned  Ada's  call, 
and  as  I  am  going  to  see  her,  and  inquire  all  about  that 
Cousin  Frank,  suppose  you  accompany  me,  and  learn  the 
particulars  of  the  wedding." 


A  WEDDING  AT  ST.  LUXE'S.  225 

u  Thank  you,"  said  Lucy ;  "  I  don't  care  enough  about 
it  to  take  that  trouble ; "  and  soon  rising,  she  left  the 
shop. 

If  Lucy  manifested  so  much  indifference,  we  wot  of 
some  bright  eyes  and  eager  ears,  which  are  willing  to 
know  the  particulars,  so  we  will  give  them,  as  follows : 
When  St.  Leon  left  Mr.  Dayton's,  it  was  ten  o'clock,  but 
notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  he  started  for 
the  small  brown  house  on  "  Dirt  Alley,"  where  dwelt  the 
sewing  woman  and  her  daughter,  who  were  both  busy 
on  some  work  which  they  wished  to  finish  that  night. 
Ada  had  stopped  for  a  moment  to  replenish  the  fire,  when 
a  knock  at  the  door  startled  her.  Opening  it,  she  saw 
St.  Leon,  and  in  much  surprise  said,  "  Why,  I  supposed 
you  were  at  the  party." 

"  So  I  have  been,"  said  he ;  "  but  I  grew  weary,  and 
left  for  a  more  congenial  atmosphere ; "  then  advancing 
toward  Mrs.  Harcourt,  he  took  her  hand,  saying,  "  Mrs. 
Linwood,  allow  me  to  address  you  by  your  right  name 
this  evening." 

We  draw  a  vail  over  the  explanation  which  followed  — 
over  the  fifty-nine  questions  asked  by  Ada  concerning 
Jenny  —  and  over  the  one  question  asked  by  St.  Leon,  the 
answer  to  which  resulted  in  the  purchase  of  all  those 
dresses  at  Miss  Carson's,  and  the  well-founded  rumor,  that 
on  Thursday  morning  a  wedding  would  take  place  at  St. 
Luke's  church. 

Poor  Lucy !  how  disconsolate  she  felt !  St.  Leon  was 
passing  from  her  grasp,  and  there  was  no  help.  On  her 
way  home,  she  three  times  heard  of  the  wedding,  and  of 
Ada's  real  name  and  former  position  in  life,  and  each  time 
her  wrath  waxed  warmer  and  warmer.  Fortunate  was  it 
for  Berintha  and  grandma  that  neither  made  her  appear- 
ancc  until  tea  time,  for  Lucy  was  in  just  the  state  when 
15 


220  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAKTY. 

an  explosive  storm  would  surely  have  followed  any  re 
mark  addressed  to  her ! 

The  next  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  as  Lucy  entered 
the  church,  the  first  object  which  met  her  eye  was  St. 
Leon,  seated  in  the  sewing  woman's  pew,  and  Ada  toler 
ably  though  not  very  near  him  !  "  How  disgusting !  " 
she  hissed  between  her  teeth,  as  she  entered  her  own 
richly  cushioned  seat,  and  opened  her  velvet-bound  prayer 
book.  Precious  little  of  the  sermon  heard  she  that  day, 
for,  turn  wilich  way  she  would,  she  still  saw  in  fancy  the 
sweet  young  face  of  her  rival ;  and  it  took  but  a  slight 
stretch  of  imagination  to  bring  to  view  a  costly  house  in 
the  far  oif  "  sunny  south,"  a  troop  of  servants,  a  hand 
some,  noble  husband,  and  the  hated  Ada  the  happy  mis 
tress  of  them  all !  Before  church  was  out,  Lucy  was  re 
ally  sick,  and  when  at  home  in  her  room,  she  did  not  re 
fuse  the  bowl  of  herb  tea  which  Berintha  kindly  brought 
her,  saying  "  it  had  cured  her  when  she  felt  just  so." 


The  morning  of  the  wedding  came,  and  though  Lucy 
had  determined  not  to  be  present,  yet  as  the  hour  ap 
proached  she  felt  how  utterly  impossible  it  would  be  for 
her  to  stay  away ;  and  when  at  half  past  eight  the  doora 
were  opened,  she  was  among  the  first  who  entered  the 
church,  which  in  a  short  time  was  filled.  Nine  rang 
from  the  old  clock  in  the  belfry,  and  then  up  the  broad 
aisle  came  the  bridal  party,  consisting  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Graham,  Charlie  and  Anna,  Mrs.  Harcourt,  or  Mrs.  Lin- 
wood,  as  we  must  now  call  her,  St.  Leon,  and  Ada. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  more  beautiful  bride  ?  "  whispered 
Bassio  Lee ;  but  Lucy  made  no  answer,  and  as  soon  as 


A  WEDDING  A.T  ST.  LUKE'S.  227  • 

the  ceremony  was  concluded  she  hurried  home,  feeling 
almost  in  need  of  some  more  catnip  tea ! 

In  the  eleven  o'clock  train  St.  Leon  with  his  bride  and 
her  mother  started  for  New  Haven,  where  they  spent  a 
delightful  week,  and  then  returned  to  S .  A  few 

£T>  ' 

days  were  passed  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Graham,  and  then 
they  departed  for  their  southern  home.  As  we  shall  not 
again  have  occasion  to  speak  of  them  in  this  story,  we  will 
here  say  that  the  following  summer  they  came  north,  to 
gether  with  Jenny  and  Cousin  Frank,  the  latter  of  whom 
was  so  much  pleased  with  the  rosy  cheeks,  laughing  eyes, 
and  playful  manners  of  Bessie  Lee,  that  when  he  returned 
home,  he  coaxed  her  to  accompany  him ;  and  again  was 
there  a  wedding  in  St.  Luke's,  and  again  did  Miss  Carsor 
make  the  bridal  outfit,  wishing  that  all  New  Orleans  gen 
tlemen  would  come  to  S for  their  wives. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A     SURPRISE. 

"  REUBEN,"  said  Grandma  Dayton  to  her  son,  one  eve- 
fcing  after  she  had  listened  to  the  reading  of  a  political 
article  for  which  she  did  not  care  one  fig,  "  Reuben,  does 
thee  suppose  Dr.  Bonton  makes  a  charge  every  time  he 
calls  ?* 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Dayton ;  "  what  made  you 
ask  that  question  ?  " 

"  Because,"  answered  grandma, — and  her  knitting  nee 
dles  rattled  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  the  next  room — 
4  because,  I  think  he  calls  mighty  often,  considering  that 


228  THE  THANKSGIVING  TAKTY. 

Lizzie  neither  gets  better  nor  worse ;  and  I  think,  too, 
that  he  and  Berintha  have  a  good  many  private  talks !  " 

The  paper  dropped  from  Mr.  Dayton's  hand,  and  "  what 
can  you  mean  ?  "  dropped  from  his  lips. 

"  Why,"  resumed  grandma,  "  every  time  he  comes,  he 
manages  to  see  Berintha  alone ;  and  hain't  thee  noticed 
that  she  has  colored  her  hair  lately,  and  left  off  caps  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  she  looks  fifteen  years  younger  for  it ;  but 
what  of  that  ?  " 

Grandma,  whose  remarks  had  all  been  preparatory  to 
the  mighty  secret  she  was  about  to  divulge,  coughed, 
and  then  informed  her  son  that  Berintha  was  going  to  be 
married,  and  wished  to  have  the  wedding  there. 

"  Berintha  and  the  doctor !  Good !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Dayton.  "  To  be  sure,  I'll  give  her  a  wedding,  and  a 
wedding  dress,  too." 

Here  grandma  left  the  room,  and  after  reporting  her 
success  to  Berintha,  she  sought  her  grand-daughters,  and 
communicated  to  them  the  expected  event.  When  Lucy 
learned  of  her  cousin's  intended  marriage,  she  was  nearly 
as  much  surprised  and  provoked  as  she  had  been  when 
first  she  heard  of  Ada's. 

Turning  to  Lizzie,  she  said,  "It's  too  bad!  for  of 
course  we  shall  have  to  give  up  all  hopes  of  the  doctor's 
money." 

"  And  perhaps  thee'll  be  the  only  old  maid  in  the  fam 
ily,  after  all,"  suggested  grandma,  who  knew  Lucy's  weak 
point,  and  sometimes  loved  to  touch  it. 

"  And  if  I  am,"  retorted  Lucy,  angrily,  "  I  hope  I 
shall  have  sense  enough  to  mind  my  own  business,  and 
not  interfere  with  that  of  my  grandchildren  ! " 

Grandma  made  no  answer,  but  secretly  she  felt  some  con 
scientious  scruples  with  regard  to  Lucy's  grandchildren  I 
As  for  Berintha,  she  seemed  entirely  changed,  and  nittexJ 


A  SUJRPIilSE.  229 

about  the  Louse  in  a  manner  which  caused  Lucy  to  call  her 
"  an  old  fool,  trying  to  ape  sixteen."  With  a  change  of  feel 
ings,  her  personal  appearance  also  changed,  and  when  slid 
one  day  returned  from  the  dentist's  with  an  entire  set  of 
new  teeth,  and  came  down  to  tea  in  a  dark,  fashionably 
made  merino,  the  metamorphose  was  complete,  and  grand 
ma  declared  that  she  looked  better  than  she  ever  had  be 
fore  in  her  life.  The  doctor,  too,  was  improved,  and  though 
he  did  not  color  his  hair,  he  ordered  six  new  shirts,  a 
new  coat,  a  new  horse,  and  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles ! 

After  a  due  lapse  of  time,  the  appointed  day  came,  and 
with  it,  at  an  early  hour,  came  Cousin  John  and  Elizabeth 
Betsey,  bringing  with  them  the  few  herbs  which  Be 
rintha,  at  the  time  of  her  removal,  had  overlooked. 
These  Bridget  demurely  proposed  should  be  given  to 
Miss  Lucy,  "  who  of  late  was  much  given  to  drinking 
catnip."  Perfectly  indignant,  Lucy  threw  the  herbs,  bag 
and  all,  into  the  fire,  thereby  filling  the  house  with  an 
odor  which  made  the  asthmatic  old  doctor  wheeze  and 
blow  wonderfully,  during  the  evening. 

A  few  of  the  villagers  were  invited,  and  when  all  was 
ready,  Mr.  Dayton  brought  down  in  his  arms  his  white- 
faced  Lizzie,  who  imperceptibly  had  grown  paler  and 
weaker  every  day,  while  those  who  looked  at  her  as  she 
reclined  upon  the  sofa,  sighed,  and  thought  of  a  different 
occasion  when  they  probably  would  assemble  there.  For 
once  Lucy  was  very  amiable,  and  with  the  utmost  politeness 
and  good  nature,  waited  upon  the  guests.  There  was  a 
softened  light  in  her  eye,  and  a  heightened  bloom,  on  her 
cheek,  occasioned  by  a  story  which  Berintha,  two  houra 
before,  had  told  her,  of  a  heart  all  crushed  in  its  youth, 
and  aching  on  through  long  years  of  loneliness,  but  which 
was  about  to  be  made  happy  by  a  union  with  the  only  ob 
ject  it  had  ever  loved!  Do  you  start  and  wonder? 


230  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAETY. 

Have  you  not  guessed  that  Dr.  Benton,  who,  that  night, 
for  the  second  time  breathed  the  marriage  vow,  was  the 
same  who,  years  before,  won  the  girlish  love  of  Berintha 
Dayton,  and  then  turned  from  her  to  the  more  beautiful 
Amy  Holbrook,  finding,  too  late,  that  all  is  not  gold  that 
glitters  ?  It  is  even  so,  and  could  you  have  seen  how 
tightly  he  clasped  the  hand  of  his  new  wife,  and  how 
fondly  his  eye  rested  upon  her,  you  would  have  said  that, 
however  long  his  affections  might  have  wandered,  they 
Had  at  last  returned  to  her,  his  first,  best  love. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LIZZIE. 

Gathered  'round  a  narrow  coffin, 

Stand  a  mourning;,  funeral  train, 
"While  for  her,  redeemed  thus  early, 

Tears  are  falling  now  like  rain. 

Hopes  are  crushed  and  hearts  arc  bleeding ; 

Drear  the  fireside  no\v,  and  lone; 
She,  the  best  loved  and  the  dearest, 

Far  away  to  heaven  hath  flown. 

Long,  long,  will  they  miss  thee,  Lizzie, 

Long,  long  days  for  thee  they'll  weep ; 
And  through  many  nights  of  sorrow 

Memory  will  her  vigils  keep. 

IN  the  chapter  just  finished,  we  casually  mentioned  that 
Lizzie,  instead  of  growing  stronger,  had  drooped  day  by 
day,  until  to  all,  save  the  fond  hearts  which  watched  her, 
she  seemed  surely  passing  away.  But  they  to  whom  her 
as  sunlight  to  the  flowers,  shut  their  eyes  ta 


LIZZIE.  231 

the  dreadful  truth,  refusing  to  believe  that  she  was  leav 
ing  them.  Oftentimes,  during  the  long  winter  nights, 
would  Mr.  Dayton  steal  softly  to  her  chamber,  and  kneel 
ing  by  her  bedside,  gaze  in  mute  anguish  upon  the  wasted 
face  of  his  darling.  And  when  from  her  transparent 
brow  and  marble  cheek  he  wiped  the  deadly  night-sweats, 
a  chill,  colder  far  than  the  chill  of  death,  crept  over  his 
heart,  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands  he  would  -cry, 
"  Oh,  Father,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me  !  " 

As  spring  approached,  she  seemed  better,  and  the  fath 
er's  heart  grew  stronger,  and  Lucy's  step  was  lighter,  and 
grandma's  words  more  cheerful,  as  hope  whispered,  "  she 
will  live."  But  when  the  snow  was  melted  from  off  the 
hillside,  and  over  the  earth  the  warm  spring  sun  was  shi 
ning,  when  the  buds  began  to  swell  and  the  trees  to  put 
forth  their  young  leaves,  there  came  over  her  a  change  so 
fearful,  that  with  one  bitter  cry  of  sorrow,  hope  fled  for 
ever  ;  and  again,  in  the  lonely  night  season,  the  weeping- 
father  knelt  and  asked  for  strength  to  bear  it  when  Ma 
best  loved  child  was  gone. 

"  Poor  Harry !  "  said  Lizzie  one  day  to  Anna,  who  was 
sitting  by  her,  "  Poor  Harry,  if  I  could  see  him  again; 
but  I  never  shall." 

"Perhaps  you  will,"  answered  Anna.  "I  wrote  to 
him  three  weeks  ago,  telling  him  to  come  quickly." 

"  Then  he  will,"  said  Lizzie  ;ubut  if  I  should  be  dead 
when  he  comes,  tell  him  how  I  loved  him  to  the  last,  and 
that  the  thought  of  leaving  him  was  the  sharpest  pang  I 
Buffered." 

There  were  tears  in  Anna's  eyes  as  she  kissed  the  cheek 
of  the  sick  girl,  and  promised  to  do  her  bidding.  Aftet 
a  moment's  pause,  Lizzie  added,  "  I  am  afraid  Harry  is 
not  a  Christian,  and  you  must  promise  not  to  leave  him 


232  THE  THANKSGIVING  PABTY. 

until  he  has  a  well-founded  hope  that  again  m  heaver.  1 
shall  see  him.?' 

Anna  promised  all,  and  then  as  Lizzie  seemed  exhausted, 
<?he  left  her  and  returned  home.  One  week  from  that  day 
she  stood  once  more  in  Lizzie's  sick-room,  listening,  for 
the  last  time,  to  the  tones  of  the  dying  girl,  as  she  bade 
her  friends  adieu.  Convulsed  with  grief,  Lucy  knelt  by 
the  bedside,  pressing  to  her  lips  one  little  clammy  hand, 
and  accusing  herself  of  destroying  her  sister's  life.  In 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  sat  Mr.  Dayton.  He 
could  not  stand  by  and  see  stealing  over  his  daughter's 
face  the  dark  shadow  which  falls  but  once  on  all.  He 
could  not  look  upon  her,  when  o'er  her  soft,  brown  eyes 
the  white  lids  closed  forever.  Like  a  naked  branch  in 
the  autumn  wind,  his  whole  frame  shook  with  agony,  and 
though  each  fibre  of  grandma's  heart  was  throbbing  with 
anguish,  yet,  for  the  sake  of  her  son,  she  strove  to  be 
calm,  and  soothed  him  as  she  would  a  little  child.  Be- 
rintha,  too,  was  there,  and  while  her  tears  were  dropping 
fast,  she  supported  Lizzie  in  her  arms,  pushing  back  from 
her  pale  brow  the  soft  curls,  which,  damp  with  the  mois 
ture  of  death,  lay  in  thick  rings  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Has  Harry  come  ?  "  said  Lizzie. 

The  answer  was  in  the  negative,  and  a  moan  of  disap 
pointment  came  from  her  lips. 

Again  she  spoke :  "  Give  him  my  bible, — and  my  curls ; 
— when  I  am  dead  let  Lucy  arrange  them, — she  knows 
how, — then  cut  them  off,  and  the  best,  the  longest,  the 
brightest  is  for  Harry,  the  others  for  you  all.  And  tell 
— tell — tell  him  to  meet — me  in  heaven — where  I'm — 20- 

& 

ing— going." 

A  stifled  shriek  from  Lucy,  as  she  fell  back,  fainting, 
told  that  with  the  last  word,  "  going?  Lizzie  had  gone  to 
heaven ! 


LIZZIE.  233 

An  hour  after  the  tolling  bell  arrested  the  attention  of 
many,  and  of  the  few  who  asked  for  whom  it  tolled, 
nearly  all  involuntarily  sighed  and  said,  '•  Poor  Harry  1 
Died  before  he  came  home  J  )J 


It  was  the  night  before  the  burial,  and  in  the  back  par 
lor  stood  a  narrow  coffin  containing  all  that  was  mortal 
of  Lizzie  Dayton.  In  the  front  parlor  Bridget  and  an 
other  domestic  kept  watch  over  the  body  of  their  young 
mistress.  Twelve  o'clock  rang  from  the  belfry  of  St. 
Luke's  church,  and  then  the  midnight  silence  was  bro 
ken  by  the  shrill  scream  of  the  locomotive,  as  the 
eastern,  train  thundered  into  the  depot.  But  the  sen 
ses  of  the  Irish  girls  were  too  profoundly  locked  in  sleep 
to  heed  that  common  sound ;  neither  did  they  hear  the 
outer  door,  which  by  accident  had  been  left  unlocked, 
swing  softly  open,  nor  saw  they  the  tall  figure  which 
passed  by  them  into  the  next  room, — the  room  where 
stood  the  coffin. 

Suddenly  through  the  house  there  echoed  a  cry,  so 
long,  so  loud,  so  despairing,  that  every  sleeper  started 
from  their  rest,  and  hurried  with  nervous  haste  to  the 
parlor,  where  they  saw  Harry  Graham,  bending  in  wild 
agony  over  the  body  of  his  darling  Lizzie,  who  never  be 
fore  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  impassioned  words  of 
endearment.  He  had  received  his  sister's  letter,  and 
started  immediately  for  home,  but  owing  to  some  delay, 
did  not  reach  there  in  time  to  see  her  alive.  Anxious  to 
know  the  worst,  he  had  not  stopped  at  his  father's  house, 
but  seeing  a  light  in  Mr.  Dayton's  parlors,  hastened 
thither.  Finding  the  door  unlocked,  he  entered,  and  on 
seeing  the  two  servant  girls  asleep,  his  heart  beat  quickly 


234  THE  THANKSGIVING  PAETT. 

with  apprehension.  Still  he  was  unprepared  for  the 
shock  which  awaited  him,  when  on  the  coffin  and  her 
who  slept  within  it  his  eye  first  rested.  He  did  not  faint, 
nor  even  weep,  but  when  his  friends  came  about  him  with 
words  of  sympathy,  he  only  answered,  "  Lizzie,  Lizzie, 
she  is  dead !  " 

During  the  remainder  of  that  sad  night,  he  sat  by  the 
coffin  pressing  his  hand  upon  the  icy  foreh/ead  until  its 
coldness  seemed  to  benumb  his  faculties,  for  when  in  the 
morning  his  parents  and  sister  came,  he  scarcely  noticed 
them ;  and  still  the  world,  misjudging  ever,  looked  upon 
his  calm  face  and  tearless  eye,  and  said  that  all  too  lightly 
had  he  loved  the  gentle  girl,  whose  last  thoughts  and 
words  had  been  of  him.  All,  they  knew  not  the  utter 
wreck  the  death  of  that  young  girl  had  made,  of  the  bit 
ter  grief,  deeper  and  more  painful  because  no  tear-drop 
fell  to  moisten  its  feverish  agony.  They  buried  her,  and 
then  back  from  the  grave  came  the  two  heart-broken  men, 
the  father  and  Harry  Graham,  each  going  to  his  own 
desolate  home,  the  one  to  commune  with  the  God  who 
had  given  and  taken  away,  and  the  other  to  question  the 
dealings  of  that  providence  which  had  taken  from  him 
his  all. 

Days  passed,  and  nothing  proved  of  any  avail  to  win 
Harry  from  the  deep  despair  which  seemed  to  have  set 
tled  upon  him.  At  length,  Anna  bethought  her  of  the 
soft,  silken  curl  which  had  been  reserved  for  him.  Quickly 
she  found  it,  and  taking  with  her  the  bible,  repaired  to 
her  brother's  room.  Twining  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
she  told  him  of  the  death-scene,  of  which  he  before  had 
refused  to  hear.  She  finished  her  story  by  suddenly  hold 
ing  to  view  the  long,  bright  ringlet,  which  once  adorned 
the  fair  head  now  resting  in  the  grave.  Her  plan  was 
successful,  for  bursting  into  tears,  Harry  wept  nearly  two 


LIZZIE.  285 

hours.  From  that  time,  he  seemed  better,  and  was  fre 
quently  found  bathed  in  tears,  and  bending  over  Lizzie's 
bible,  which  now  was  his  daily  companion. 

Lucy,  too,  seemed  greatly  changed.  She  had  loved  her 
sister  as  devotedly  as  one  of  her  nature  could  love,  and  for 
her  death  she  mourned  sincerely.  Lizzie's  words  of  love 
and  gentle  persuasion  had  *not  been  without  their  effect, 
and  when  Mr.  Dayton  saw  how  kind,  how  affectionate  and 
considerate  of  other  people's  feelings  his  daughter  had  be 
come,  he  felt  that  Lizzie  had  not  died  in  vain. 


Seven  times  have  the  spring  violets  blossomed,  seven 
times  the  flowers  of  summer  bloomed,  seven  times  have  the 
autumnal  stores  been  gathered  in,  and  seven  times  have  the 
winds  of  winter  sighed  over  the  New  England  hills,  since 
Lizzie  was  laid  to  rest.  In  her  home  there  have  been  few 
changes.  Mr.  Dayton's  hair  is  whiter  than  it  was  of  old, 
and  the  furrows  on  his  brow  deeper  and  more  marked. 
Grandma,  quiet  and  gentle  as  ever,  knits  on,  day  after 
day,  ever  and  anon  speaking  of  "  our  dear  little  Lizzie, 
who  died  years  ago." 

Lucy  is  still  unmarried,  and  satisfied,  too,  that  it  should 
be  so.  A  patient,  self-sacrificing  Christian,  she  strives  to 
make  up  to  her  father  for  the  loss  of  one  over  whose 
memory  she  daily  weeps,  and  to  whose  death  she  accuses 
herself  of  being  accessory.  Dr.  Benton  and  his  rather 
fashionable  wife  live  in  their  great  house,  ride  in  their 
handsome  carriage,  give  large  dinner  parties,  play  chess 
after  supper,  and  then  the  old  doctor  nods  over  his  eve 
ning  paper,  while  Berintlia  nods  over  a  piece  of  embroide 
ry,  intended  to  represent  a  little  dog  chasing  a  butterfly 


236  THE  THANKSGIVING  PARTY. 

and  which  would  as  readily  be  taken  for  that  as  for  any 
thing  else,  and  for  anything  else  as  that. 

Two  years  ago  a  pale  young  missionary  departed  to 
carry  the  news  of  salvation  to  the  heathen  land.  Some 
one  suggested  that  he  should  take  with  him  a  wife,  but 
lie  shook  his  head  mournfully,  saying,  "  I  have  one  wife 
in  heaven."  The  night  before  he  left  home,  he  might 
have  been  seen,  long  after  midnight,  seated  upon  a  grassy 
grave,  where  the  flowers  of  summer  were  growing. 
Around  the  stone  which  marks  the  spot,  rose  bushes  have 
clustered  so  thickly  as  to  hide  from  view  the  words  there 
written,  but  push  them  aside  and  you  will  read,  "  Our 
darling  Lizzie." 


©flr  %&  foiise 

AMONQ  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TJNCLE   AMOS     AND     AUNT   POLLY. 

MANY  years  ago,  before  I  was  Lorn,  or  you  either,  per 
chance,  gentle  reader,  there  lived,  far  away  among  the  tall 
mountains  of  New  England,  a  sturdy  farmer,  Uncle  Amos 
Carey,  and  his  good  wife  Polly.  This  worthy  couple, 
who  seemed  to  be  every  body's  uncle  and  aunt,  were 
known  for  many  miles  around,  and  their  "  old  red  house 
among  the  mountains"  was  long  the  rendezvous  for  all 
the  young  mountaineers,  who,  with  their  rosy  cheeked 
lasses,  congregated  there  on  all  "  great  days,"  and  on  many 
days  which  were  not  great. 

There  was  some  strong  attraction  about  that  low,  red 
building.  Perhaps  it  was  because  the  waters  of  the  well 
which  stood  in  the  rear  were  colder,  or  the  grass  in  the 
little  yard  was  greener,  and  the  elm  trees  and  lilac  bushes 
taller  there  than  elsewhere.  Or  it  might  have  been  be 
cause  Aunt  Polly  was  deeply  skilled  in  the  mysteries  of 
fortune-telling,  by  means  of  teacups  and  tea-grounds. 

Many  a  time  might  the  good  dame  have  been  seen,  sur 
rounded  by  half  a  dozen  girls,  all  listening  eagerly,  while 
Aunt  Polly,  with  a  dolefully  grave  expression  about  her 


238         THE  OLD  BED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

long  nose,  peered  into  some  teacup,  in  the  bottom  of 
which  lay  a  mass  of  tea-leaves  in  helter-skelter  form. 
Slowly  and  solemnly  would  she  unfold  the  shining  future 
to  some  bright-eyed  maiden,  whose  heart  beat  faster  a? 
the  thoughts  of  a  rich  husband,  fine  house,  and  more 
dresses  than  she  knew  what  to  do  with,  were  presented 
to  her  imagination.  At  other  times,  the  end  of  Aunt 
Polly's  nose  would  perceptibly  flatten,  and  her  voice  would 
become  fearfully  low,  as,  with  an  ominous  shake  of  her 
head,  she  dove  into  the  teacup  of  some  luckless  wight, 
who  was  known  to  have  pilfered  her  grapes  and  plundered 
her  water-melon  patch !  On  such  occasions,  dreadful  was 
the  fortune  given  to  the  unfortunate  offender.  A  broken 
heart,  broken  leg,  and  most  likely  a  broken  neck,  were 
awarded  to  him  for  his  delinquencies. 

Notwithstanding  these  occasional  ill  fortunes,  Aunt 
Polly  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  young  folks,  who,  as 
we  have  said,  were  frequent  visitors  at  "  the  old  red  house 
among  the  mountains." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ALICE. 

UNCLE  Amos  had  one  child,  a  daughter,  named  Alice. 
At  a  period  longer  ago  than  I  can  remember,  Alice  was 
fifteen  years  of  age,  and  was  as  wild  and  shy  a  creature  as 
the  timid  deer,  which  sometimes  bounded  past  her  moun 
tain  home,  trembling  at  the  rustle  of  every  leaf  and  the 
buzz  of  every  bee.  There  was  much  doubt  whether  Alice 
were  the  veritable  child  of  Uncle  Amos  and  Aunt  Polly, 
or  not. 


AUCE.  239 

Rumor  said  that  nearly  fifteen  years  before,  a  fearful 
snow  storm,  such  as  the  "  oldest  inhabitant"  had  never 
before  known,  swept  over  the  mountains,  blocking  up  the 
roads,  and  rendering  them  impassable  for  several  days* 
On  the  first  night  of  the  storm,  about  dusk,  a  slight  fe 
male  form  was  seen  toiling  slowly  up  the  mountain  road, 
which  led  to  Uncle  Amos'  house.  A  man  who  was  hurry 
ing  home  met  her,  and  anxious  to  know  who  she  was, 
looked  under  her  bonnet.  Her  face,  as  he  afterwards  de 
scribed  it,  was  very  white  and  crazy-like,  and  very  beau 
tiful.  Another  person,  a  woman,  had  been  with  her  knit 
ting  work  to  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  was  also  returning 
home.  Suddenly  turning  a  corner  in  the  road,  she  came 
face  to  face  with  the  weary  traveler,  who  seemed  anxious 
to  pass  unnoticed.  But  the  woman  was  inquisitive,  and 
desirous  of  knowing  who  the  stranger  could  be;  so  she 
asked  her  name,  and  where  she  was  going.  A  glance  of 
anger  shot  from  the  large  black  eye  of  the  strange  woman, 
but  farther  than  that  she  deigned  no  reply ;  and  as  she 
passed  on,  the  questioner  observed  that  she  carried  in  her 
arms  something  which  might  or  might  not  be  an  infant. 

The  next  day  the  storm  raged  so  violently  that  neither 
man,  woman,  nor  child  were  seen  outside  their  own  yards 
For  three  days  the  storm  continued  with  unabated  fury 
and  several  more  days  passed  before  the  process  of  "  break 
ing  roads "  was  gone  through  with,  sufficiently  to  admit 
of  a  passage  from  one  house  to  another.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  one  night,  just  after  sunset,  a  whole  sled  load 
of  folks  drew  up  in  front  of  Uncle  Amos'  dwelling  They 
could  not  wait  any  longer  before  visiting  Aunt  Polly, 
whose  smiling  face  appeared  at  the  door,  and  called  out, 
"  Welcome  to  you  all.  I's  expecting  you,  and  have  got 
a  lot  of  mince  pies  and  doughnuts  made." 

So  the  dames  and  lasses  bounded  off  from  the  ox-sled. 


240        THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

and  running  hastily  into  the  house,  were  soon  relieving 
themselves  of  their  warm  wrappings.  There  was  so  much 
talking  and  laughing  among  them,  that  the  cloaks,  shawls, 
and  hoods  were  all  put  away  before  one  of  them  exclaimed, 
"  Mercy  sakes !  Here's  a  cradle !  Is  your  cat  sick,  Aunt 
Polly  ?  But  no, — as  true  as  I  live,  it's  a  little  bit  of  a 
baby !  Where  in  this  world  did  you  get  it,  Aunt  Polly  ?  " 

But  if  Aunt  Polly  knew  where  she  got  it,  she  kept  the 
knowledge  to  herself,  and  bravely  withstood  the  question 
ing  and  cross-questioning  of  her  fair  guests. 

"Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I  will  tell  you  no  lies,"  said 
she.  "  It  is  my  child,  and  haven't  I  as  good  a  right  to  have 
a  daughter  as  anybody  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thee  has,"  said  Dolly  Dutton,  a  fair,  chubby  lit 
tle  Quakeress ;  "  and  well  is  it  for  the  poor  thing  that  it 
can  call  thee  mother." 

By  this  time  the  baby  had  been  unceremoniously  hus 
tled  out  of  its  snug  cradle  by  some  of  the  young  girls,  who 
were  all  loud  in  their  admiration  of  its  beauty. 

"  What  do  you  call  it,  Aunt  Polly  ?  "  asked  one. 

"  Alice,"  was  Aunt  Polly's  quiet  reply. 

At  that  moment  the  baby  slowly  unclosed  its  large  eyes, 
and  fixed  them  on  the  face  of  the  young  girl  who  held  her, 
with  a  strange,  earnest  gaze.  Up  sprung  the  girl  as  if 
etung  by  a  serpent.  "  Gracious  goodness !  "  exclaimed 
she,  "  will  somebody  please  take  her.  She's  got  the  '  evil 
eye'  I  do  believe,  and  looks  for  all  the  world  like  old 
Squire  Herndon." 

Aunt  Polly  hastily  stooped  down  to  take  the  child,  but 
she  did  not  stoop  soon  enough  or  low  enough  to  hide  from 
Dolly  Dutton's  keen  eye  the  deep  flush  which  mantled 
her  cheek  at  the  mention  of  Squire  llerndon.  From  that 
time  Dolly's  mind  was  made  up  respecting  Alice.  She 
knew  something  which  most  of  her  neighbors  did  not 


ALICE. 

Know,  but  as  she  chose  to  keep  it  a  secret,  so  too  will  I, 
for  a  tune,  at  least. 

Merrily  sang  the  round  tea-kettle  in  the  bright  fire 
which  blazed  on  Aunt  Polly's  clean  hearth,  and  loudly 
kissed  the  strong  green  tea  in  the  old  black  earthen  tea 
pot,  while  the  long  pine  table,  with  its  snowy  cloth,* 
groaned  beneath  its  weight  of  edibles.  The  spirits  of  the 
company  rose  higher  in  proportion  as  the  good  cheer  grew 
lower.  Numerous  were  the  jokes  cracked  at  the  expense 
of  the  little  Alice,  who,  with  her  large,  wild  eyes,  lay  in 
her  cradle  bed,  wholly  unconscious  of  the  wonder  and 
gossip  she  was  exciting. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Richard,  for  thee  to  quiz  Aunt  Polly 
concerning  Alice,  for  she  ain't  going  to  tell,  and  most 
likely  has  a  good  reason  for  her  silence,"  said  Dolly  Dut- 
ton  to  Mr.  Richard  Hallidon,  who  had  the  honor  of  being 
schoolmaster  in  the  little  village  which  lay  snugly  nestled 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 

"Neither  would  I  give  the  worth  of  a  quill  pen  to 
know,"  said  Richard,  "  but  I  will  stipulate  with  Aunt 
Polly  that  as  soon  as  Alice  is  old  enough,  she  shall  come 
to  my  school." 

To  this  proposition  Aunt  Polly  readily  assented,  and 
after  much  laughing  and  joking,  and  the  disappearance 
of  a  large  tin  pan  full  of  red  apples,  and  a  gallon  or  so  of 
egg  nog,  the  little  party  left  for  home. 

Ere  the  heavy  tread  of  the  oxen  and  the  creaking  of 
the  cumbrous  sled  had  died  away  in  the  distance,  Uncle 
Amos  was  snugly  ensconced  in  bed,  and  in  the  course  of 
five  minutes  he  was  sending  forth  sundry  loud  noises 
which  sounded  like  snoring ;  but  as  the  good  man  warmly 
contended  that  he  never  snored,  (has  the  reader  ever  seen 
a  man  who  would  confess  he  did  snore  ?  )  we  will  suppose 
the  sounds  to  have  been  something  else.  Aunt  Polly  sat 
16 


242         THE  OLD  KED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

by  thc<  fire  with  the  child  of  her  adoption  lying  on  her 
lap.  Bending  down,  she  closely  scrutinized  each  feature 
of  the  small,  white  face,  and  as  the  infant  opened  its  full, 
dark  eyes,  and  fixed  them  inquiringly  upon  her,  she  mur 
mured,  "  Yes,  she  does  look  like  Squire  Herndon ;  strange 
I  never  thought  of  it  before.  But  deary  me,"  sh^  con 
tinued,  "who  ever  did  see  such  awful  eyes?  They  fairly 
make  me  fidgety.  There,  shut  them  up,"  said  she,  at  the 
same  time  pressing  down  the  lids  over  the  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  look  so  knowingly  at  her. 

The  offending  eyes  being  shut,  the  old  lady  continued 
her  musing.  "Yes,"  thought  she,  "Alice  has  the  Hern 
don  look.  I  wonder  what  the  old  squire  would  say  if  he 
knew  all.  I've  half  a  mind  to  tell  him,  just  to  see  what 
kind  of  a  hurricane  he  would  get  up."  Then  followed  a 
long  reverie,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  large,  hand 
some  castle,  of  which  Alice  was  the  proud  nominal  mis 
tress,  and  Aunt  Polly  the  real  one. 

By  the  time  this  castle  was  fully  completed  and  fur 
nished,  Aunt  Polly  was  fast  nodding  assent  to  every  im 
provement.  Fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  clearer  and  clearer  ticked  the  old  long  clock  in 
the  corner,  louder  and  louder  grew  the  breathings  of 
Uncle  Amos,  while  lower  and  lower  nodded  Aunt  Polly's 
spectacles,  till  at  last  they  dropped  from  the  long,  sharp 
nose,  and  rested  quietly  on  the  floor.  How  long  this 
state  of  things  would  have  continued,  is  not  known,  for 
matters  were  soon  brought  to  a  crisis  by  Uncle  Amos 
who  gave  a  snore  so  loud  and  long  that  it  woke  the  baby, 
Alice,  whose  uneasy  turnings  soon  roused  her  sleeping 
nurse. 

"  Bless  my  stars ! "  said  Aunt  Polly,  rubbing  her  eyes 
"  where's  my  spectacles  ?  I  must  have  nad  a  nap.*'  A 


ALICE.  243 


few  moments  more,  and  silence  again  settled  rouAd  the 
house,  and  its  occupants  were  wandering  through  the 
misty  vales  of  dreamland. 


CHAPTER  III. 

LITTLE      ITEMS. 

WE  pass  rapidly  over  the  first  ten  years  of  Alice's  life, 
only  pausing  to  say  that  she  throve  well  under  the  kind 
care  of  Uncle  Amos  and  Aunt  Polly,  whom  she  looked 
upon  as  her  parents,  for  she  knew  no  others.  As  she  in 
creased  in  stature  and  years,  her  personal  appearance  was 
remarked  and  commented  upon  by  the  matrons  of  the 
mountains,  as  well  as  those  of  the  village  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain. 

One  would  say,  "  She  and  old  Herndon  looked  as  much 
alike  as  two  peas,"  while  another  would  answer,  "  Yes, 
only  Alice  has  got  such  strange,  scornful  eyes.  They 
look  at  you  as  though  they  could  read  all  your  thoughts." 
And  now* I  suppose  some  reader  will  say,  "flow  did  Al 
ice  look,  and  what  was  it  about  her  eyes?"  So  here 
follows  a  description  of  Alice  as  she  was  at  ten  years 
of  age. 

Naturally  healthy,  the  strength  of  her  constitution  was 
greatly  increased  by  the  mountain  air  and  exercise  to 
which  she  was  daily  accustomed.  Still,  in  form  she  was 
delicate,  and  Aunt  Polly  often  expressed  her  fears  that 
the  poor  child  would  never  attain  her  height,  which  was 
five  feet  ten  inches !  Alice's  features  were  tolerably  reg 
ular,  and  her  complexion  was  as  white  and  pure  as  the 
felling  snow.  Indeed,  there  was  something  almost  start- 


244        THE  OLD  BED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

ling  i^the  marble  whiteness  of  her  face,  contrasting,  as  it 
did,  with  the  blackness  of  her  hair,  which  hung  in  short, 
tangled  curls  about  her  neck,  forehead,  and  eyes.  Those 
eyes  we  will  speak  of,  ere  long.  "We  are  not  yet  through 
with  Alice's  hair,  which  cost  her  poor  mother  a  world  of 
trouble.  Do  what  she  might,  it  would  curl.  Soak  it  in 
suds  as  long  as  she  chose,  and  as  soon  as  it  dried,  it.  curled 
more  than  ever!  What  a  pest  it  was!  Aunt  Polly 
couldn't  spend  her  time  in  curling  hair,  and  as  Alice  did 
not  know  how,  there  seemed  but  one  alternative  —  cut  it 
off;  but  this  Alice  would  not  suffer,  so  one  hour  every 
Sunday  morning  was  devoted  to  combing  and  curling 
the  really  handsome  hair,  which  during  the  week  hung 
in  wild  disorder  about  her  face,  becoming  each  day  more 
and  more  tangled  and  matted,  until  it  was  not  strange 
that  Alice  thought  she  should  surely  die  if  it  were  combed 
more  than  once  a  week. 

Now  for  those  eyes.  After  all,  there  was  nothing  so 
very  goblin-like  about  them.  They  were  merely  very 
large,  very  black,  and  very  bright,  and  seemed,  indeed, 
to  look  into  the  recesses  of  one's  soul,  and  pry  out  his  in 
most  thoughts.  There  was  a  world  of  pride  and  scorn 
beneath  the  long  silken  eyelashes,  which  seemfcd  so  sel 
dom  to  be  closed,  for  as  one  of  the  villagers  said,  "  Alice's 
eyes  were  always  looking,  looking  at  you."  On  occa 
sions  when  Aunt  Polly  was  engaged  in  her  favorite  occu 
pation  of  fortune-telling,  Alice's  eyes  would  flash  forth 
her  utter  contempt  of  the  whole  matter,  and  many  a 
young  maiden,  shamed  by  the  scorn  of  the  little  wild  girl, 
as  she  was  called,  would  conclude  not  to  have  "  her  for 
tune  told." 

It  was  seldom,  however,  that  Alice  honored  her  moth 
er's  company  by  her  presence.  She  seemed  to  prefer  the 
woods,  the  birds,  and  flowers  for  her  companions.  Some* 


LITTLE  ITEMS.  245 

times  she  would  steal  away  into  the  little  bed-roon||  which 
joined  her  mother's  sitting-room,  and  there,  unobserved, 
she  would  watch,  through  a  hole  in  the  door,  the  fcounto 
nances  and  proceedings  of  the  company  around  her 
mother's  tea-table.  Often  would  some  of  the  guests  be 
startled  by  the  fixed  gaze  of  those  large,  black  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  look  with  such  haughty  pity  on  the 
farce  which  always  followed  one  of  Aunt  Polly's  tea 
drinkings. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FRANK. 

ONE  bright  summer  afternoon  when  there  was  nu 
school,  Alice  wandered  out  alone  into  the  woods,  pluck 
ing  here  and  there  a  wild  flower,  which  she  placed  in  the 
matted  curls  of  her  hair.  At  last,  coming  to  a  little  open 
ing  in  the  trees,  where  a  rude  seat  had  been  constructed, 
she  sat  down,  and  commenced  singing,  in  clear,  musical 
tones,  the  old  familiar  song,  "Bonnie  Doon." 

She  was  just  finishing  the  first  stanza,  when  she  waa 
startled  by  the  sound  of  another  voice,  chiming  in  with 
hers.  Springing  up,  she  looked  round  for  the  intruder. 

"  Just  cast  those  big  eyes  straight  ahead,  and  you  '11 
see  me !  "  called  out  some  one  in  a  loud,  merry  tone. 

Immediately  Alice  saw  directly  before  her  a  roguish 
looking,  handsome  boy,  apparently  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  of  age.    There  was  something  in  his  air  and  dress ' 
which  told  that  he  was  above  the  common  order  of  moun 
taineers.    Alice  suddenly  recollected  having  heard  that  a 


246         THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMO-NG  THE 

widow  lady,  with  one  son,  had  recently  moved  into  a 
pretty  white  cottage  which  stood  about  half  a  mile  from 
her  father's,  and  she  readily  concluded  that  the  lad  be 
fore  her  was  Frank  Seymour,  wrhose  beauty  she  lisA 
heard  one  of  her  school  companions  extol  so  highly. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  run,  but  the  boy  prevented  her, 
by  saying,  "  I  'm  Frank  Seymour.  I  've  just  moved  my 
mother  up  among  these  mountains.  Now,  who  and 
what  are  you?  You  are  a  queer  looking  specimen,  any 
way ! " 

Rude  as  this  speech  was,  it  pleased  Alice,  and  she  an 
swered,  "  I  am  Alice  Carey,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  am 
queer  looking." 

"  Alice  Carey,  are  you  ?  That's  a  pretty  name,"  said 
Frank,  cracking  his  fingers.  "Alice  Carey, — oh,  I  know, 
you  are  that  old  witch's  daughter  that  lives  in  the  red 
house.  I've  heard  of  you.  They  say  you  are  as  wild  as 
a  wild-cat, — and  yet  I  like  you." 

Alice  stood  for  an  instant  as  if  spell-bound.  Her  mother 
had  been  called  an  old  witch,  and  herself  a  wild-cat,  in 
such  a  comical  way,  too,  that  for  a  time  anger  and  mirth 
strove  for  the  mastery.  The  former  conquered,  and  ere 
Frank  was  aware  of  her  intention,  he  received  a  blow  in 
his  face  which  sent  him  reeling  against  an  old  tree.  When 
he  recovered  a  standing  posture,  he  observed  Alice  far 
away  in  the  distance,  speeding  it  over  logs  and  stumps, 
briers  and  bushes,  and  he  instantly  started  in  pursuit.  The 
chase  was  long,  for  Alice  ran  swiftly,  but  gradually  her 
pursuer  gained  upon  her.  At  length  she  came  to  a  tall  tree, 
whose  limbs  grew  near  the  ground.  With  a  cat-like 
spring  she  caught  the  lower  branch,  and  by  the  time 
Frank  reached  the  tree,  she  was  far  up,  near  its  top,  cozily 
Bitting  on  one  of  its  boughs.  In  her  hand  she  held  a 
large  worms'  nest,  which  she  had  broken  from  the  tree. 


FRANK.  241 

"Hallo,  there,  Master  Frank!"  said  she.  "Just  as 
sure  as  you  climb  this  tree  I'll  shake  these  worms  in  your 
face ! " 

If  there  was  any  living  thing  Frank  feared,  it  was  a 
worm,  so  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  his  projected  ascent. 

"  What  a  little  spit-fire  she  is !  I'll  fetch  her  down, 
though,"  said  he.  At  the  same  time  gathering  up  a  hand 
ful  of  stones,  he  called  out,  "  Miss  Alice  Carey,  if  you 
don't  come  down,  instanter,  I'll  stone  you  down." 

"  Hit  me  if  you  can,"  was  the  defiant  answer. 

Whizz  went  a  stone  through  the  air,  but  it  missed  its 
mark,  and  fell  harmlessly  to  the  ground.  We  must  tell 
the  truth,  however,  and  say  that  Frank  was  very  careful 
not  to  hit  the  white,  unearthly  face,  which  gleamed  amid 
the  dense  foliage  of  the  tree. 

"  Come,  Alice,"  said  he,  coaxingly,  "  what's  the  use  of 
being  perched  up  there  like  a  raccoon  or  hyena.  Come 
down,  and  let  us  make  up  friends,  for  really  I  do  like 
you." 

"  You  called  my  mother  an  old  witch,"  said  Alice. 

"  I  know  I  did,"  answered  Frank,  "  but  I'm  sorry  for 
it.  I  heard  she  told  fortunes,  and  I  couldn't  think  of  any 
better  name.  But  pray  come  down,  and  I  won't  call  her 
so  again." 

Alice  was  finally  persuaded,  and  rapidly  descending  the 
tree,  she  soon  stood  on  the  green  turf  beside  Frank,  who 
now  eyed  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"I  say,  Alice,"  continued  he,  "just  throw  away  that 
odious  worms'  nest,  and  act  like  somebody." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,  Master  Frank,"  said  Alice. 
"  I  know  now  that  you  are  afraid  of  worms,  and  if  you 
come  one  inch  nearer  me,  I'll  throw  some  on  you !  " 

So  Frank  kept  at  a  respectful  distance,  but  he  ex 
erted  himself  to  conquer  Alice's  evident  dislike  of  him, 


248        THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

and  in  five  minutes'  time  lie  succeeded,  for  it  was  not  in 
her  nature  to  withstand  the  handsome  face,  laughing  eye, 
and  more  than  all,  the  droll  humor  of  Frank. 

The  worms'  nest  was  gradually  forgotten,  and  when 
Frank,  pulling  a  book  from  his  pocket,  said,  "  See  here, 
look  at  my  new  history,"  it  was  dropped,  while  Alice 
drew  so  near  to  Frank  that,  ere  the  book  was  looked 
through,  his  hand  was  resting  on  her  shoulder,  and  one 
of  her  snarled  black  curls  lay  amid  his  rich  brown  hair. 

Before  they  parted  that  afternoon,  they  were  sworn 
friends,  and  Frank  had  won  from  Alice  an  invitation  to 
visit  her  mother  the  next  day.  "  You  may  as  well  invite 
me,"  said  he,  "  for  I  shah1  come,  any  way." 

That  night  Alice  related  her  adventure  to  her  mother, 
and  spoke  of  Frank  in  terms  so  extravagant,  that  the  next 
day,  when  he  made  his  appearance,  he  met  with  a  hearty 
welcome  from  Aunt  Polly,  who  was  perfectly  delighted 
with  the  bright,  handsome  boy.  After  tea,  he  said, 
"  Come,  Mrs.  Carey,  you  must  tell  my  fortune,  and  mind, 
now,  tell  me  a  good  one." 

"  Frank,  Frank !  "  said  Alice,  quickly. 

"  Well,  what's  wanted  of  Frank,  Frank  ?  "  asked  the 
young  gentleman. 

"I  thought  you  despised  the  whole  affair.  I  shan't 
like  you  if  you  don't,"  answered  Alice. 

"And  so  I  do,"  said  Frank;  "but  pity  sakes,  can't  a 
man  have  a  little  fun  ?  " 

"  You're  a  funny  man,"  thought  Alice,  but  she  said  no 
thing,  and  her  mother  proceeded  to  read  Frank's  fortune 
from  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  A  handsome  wife,  who  was 
rich  and  a  lady,  too,  was  promised  him.  Frank  waited 
to  hear  no  more ;  springing  up,  he  struck  the  big  bluo 
cup  from  the  hand  of  the  astonished  Aunt  Polly,  who  ex 
claimed,  "What  ails  the  boy ! " 


FKANK.  249 

"  What  ails  me  ?  "  repeated  Frank ;  "  nobody  wants  a 
rich  lady  for  a  wife.  Why  didn't  you  promise  me  Alice  ? 
I  like  her  best  of  anybody,  and  she's  handsome,  too,  if 
she'd  only  comb  out  that  squirrel's  nest  of  hers.  I  say, 
Alice,"  continued  he,  "  why  don't  you  take  better  care 
of  your  hair  ?  Come  to  my  mother's,  and  she'll  teach 
you  how  to  curl  it  beautifully.  Will  you  let  her  come  to 
morrow,  Mrs.  Carey  ?  "  said  he,  turning  to  Aunt  Polly. 
"  If  you  will,  I  will  come  for  her,  and  will  bring  you  two 
teacups  to  pay  for  the  one  I  broke.  I'm  sorry  I  did  that, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it." 

Aunt  Polly  gave  her  consent  to  the  visit,  and  the  next 
day  Frank  joyfully  introduced  Alice  to  his  mother.  From 
that  time  she  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Seymour,  who  was  an  accomplished  woman,  and  took 
great  pleasure  in  improving  the  manners  and  education 
of  little  Alice.  Frank  studied  at  home  with  his  mother, 
and  he  begged  so  hard  that  his  new  friend  might  share 
his  advantages,  that  Mrs.  Seymour  finally  proposed  to 
Aunt  Polly  to  take  Alice  from  school  and  let  her  study 
with  Frank.  To  this  plan  Aunt  Polly  assented,  and 
during  the  next  six  months  Alice's  improvement  was  as 
rapid  as  her  happiness  was  unbounded. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WOMAN'S      NATURE. 

WHEN  the  spring  came,  there  was  a  change  of  teachers 
in  the  village  school.  Richard  Hallidon,  whc  for  twelve 
years  had  swayed  the  birchen  rod,  was  dismissed,  and  a? 
a  more  talented  and  accomplished  individual  was  hired  in 


250       THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

his  st^ad,  Mrs.  Seymour  concluded  to  send  Frank  there 
to  school.  Alice  was  his  daily  companion,  and  the  inti 
macy  between  them  was  a  subject  of  much  ridicule  for 
their  companions. 

Frank  liked  the  fun  of  being  teased  about  Alice,  but 
she  always  declared  that  her  preference  for  him,  if  she  had 
any,  arose  from  the  fact  that  he  was  much  better  behaved 
than  the  other  boys.  Her  affection  was  at  last  put  to  the 
test,  in  the  following  novel  manner : 

As  she  and  some  of  her  companions  were  one  night  re 
turning  from  school,  they  came  suddenly  upon  a  group 
of  boys,  who  were  calling  out,  "That's  it,  Frank.  Now 
make  her  draw.  Who-a,  haw,  get  up,  Tabby." 

Coming  near,  they  discovered  a  kitten  with  a  cord  tied 
round  its  neck.  To  this  cord  was  attached  Frank's  din 
ner  basket  and  books.  "  He  was  tired  of  carrying  them," 
he  said,  "  and  he  meant  to  make  kitty  draw  them." 

"  Frank  Seymour !  "  said  Alice,  indignantly,  "  let  that 
cat  go,  this  instant." 

Frank  stood  irresolute.  There  was  something  in  the 
expression  of  Alice's  eye  which  made  him  uncomfortable. 
He  thought  of  the  worms'  nest,  but  one  of  the  boys  called 
out,  "  Shame,  Frank ;  don't  be  afraid  of  her." 

So  Frank  again  attempted  to  make  kitty  draw  the  bas 
ket.  In  a  twinkling,  Alice  pitched  upon  him.  The  boys 
gathered  round  and  shouted,  "A  fight!  a  fight!  Now 
for  some  fun !  Give  it  to  him,  Alice !  That's  right,  hit 
him  another  dig !  " 

The  contest  was  a  hot  one,  and  on  Frank's  part  a  bloody 
one,  for  Alice  seized  his  nose  and  wrung  it  until  the  blood 
gushed  out !  He,  however,  was  the  strongest,  and  was 
fast  gaining  the  advantage.  One  of  the  girls  perceived 
this,  and  turning  to  her  brother,  said,  "  Bob,  help  Alice 
don't  you  see  she's  getting  the  worst  of  it?  " 


WOMAN'S   NATURE.  251 

Thus  importuned,  Bob  fell  upon  Frank  and  belabored 
him  so  unmercifully  that  Frank  cried  for  quarter.  "Shall 
I  let  him  alone,  Alice  ?  "  said  Bob.  "  I  will  do  just  as 
you  say." 

Alice's  only  answer  was  a  fierce  thrust  at  Bob's  hair, 
hands  full  of  which  were  soon  floating  on  the  air,  like  this-* 
ties  in  the  autumn  time. 

"  I  declare,  Alice,"  said  Bob's  sister,  "  I  always  knew 
you  liked  Frank,  but  I  did  not  think  you'd  fight  so  like  a 
tiger  for  him." 

If  this  speech  caused  Alice  any  emotion,  it  was  imper 
ceptible,  unless  it  were  evinced  by  the  increased  brilliancy 
of  her  eyes,  which  emitted  such  lightning  flashes,  that  du 
ring  their  walk  home  Frank  very  modestly  suggested  to 
her  the  propriety  of  keeping  her  eyes  shut,  while  going 
through  the  woods,  lest  the  dried  leaves  and  shrubs  should 
take  fire !  It  is  needless  to  say  that  thenceforth  Frank 
and  Alice  were  suifered  to  fight  their  own  battles,  undis 
turbed  by  Bob  or  any  of  his  companions. 


'    CHAPTER  YI. 

SQUIRE     HERNDON     AND     IRA. 

EVERY  village,  however  small,  has  its  aristocrat,  and 
BO  had  the  little  village  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  At 
the  upper  end  of  the  principal  street  stood  a  large,  hand 
some  building,  whose  high  white  walls,  long  green  shut 
ters,  granite  steps,  and  huge  brass  knocker,  seemed  tc 
look  down  somewhat  proudly  upon  their  more  humble 
neighbors.  To  the  casual  visitor  or  passing  traveler, 


252        THE  OLD  EED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

this  dwelling  was  pointed  out  as  belonging  to  Squire 
Herndon. 

Squire  Herndon  was  a  man  on  whose  head  the  frosts 
of  sixty  winters  had  fallen  so  heavily  that  they  had 
bleached  his  once  brown  locks  to  a  snowy  whiteness.  He 
was  one  who  seemed  to  have  outlived  all  natural  affections. 
Long  years  had  passed  since  he  had  laid  the  gentle  wife 
of  his  youth  to  rest  beneath  the  green  willow,  whose 
branches  are  now  bent  so  low  as  almost  to  hide  from  view 
the  low,  grassy  mound.  By  the  side  of  that  grave  was 
another,  the  grave  of  Squire  Herndon's  only  daughter. 
She  was  fair  and  beautiful,  but  the  destroyer  came,  and 
one  bright  morning  in  autumn,  just  as  the  hoar  frost  was 
beginning  to  touch  the  foliage  with  a  brighter  huo,  she 
passed  away,  and  the  old  man's  home  was  again  desolate. 
Some  of  the  villagers  said  of  him  in  his  affliction,  "  It's 
surely  a  judgment  from  heaven,  to  pay  him  for  being  so 
proud,  and  may  be  it  will  do  him  good ; "  but  Squire 
Herndon  was  one  whose  morose  nature  adversity  ren 
dered  still  more  sour. 

He  had  yet  one  child  left,  Ira,  his  first-born  and  only 
son.  On  him  his  hopes  were  henceforth  centered.  Ira 
should  marry  some  wealthy  heiress,  arid  thus  the  family 
name  would  not  become  extinct.  Squire  Herndon  be 
longed  to  an  English  family,  which  was  probably  de 
scended  from  one  of  those  "three  brothers  who  came 
over  from  England  "  long  time  ago !  He  was  proud  of 
his  ancestors,  proud  of  his  wealth,  his  house,  servants, 
and  grounds,  and  had  been  proud  of  his  daughter,  but 
she  was  gone ;  and  now  he  was  proud  of  Ira,  whom  he 
tried  to  make  generally  disagreeable  to  the  villagers. 

But  this  he  could  not  do,  for  Ira  possessed  too  many 
of  the  social  qualities  of  his  mother  to  be  very  proud 
and  arrogant.  At  length  the  tune  came  when  he  entered 


SQUIEE  HEKNDON  AND  IKA.  2-r>3 

college  at  Amherst.  During  his  collegiate  course,  he  be 
came  acquainted  with  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl, 
named  Mary  Calvert.  That  acquaintance  soon  ripened 
into  love,  and  Squire  Herndon  was  one  day  startled  by  a 
letter  from  Ira,  saying  that  he  was  about  to  oifer  himself 
to  a  Miss  Calvert,  with  whom  he  knew  his  father  would 
be  pleased. 

This  so  enraged  Squire  Herndon,  that,  without  stopping 
to  read  more,  he  threw  the  letter  aside,  and  for  the  next 
half  hour  paced  his  apartment,  stamping,  puffing,  and 
foaming  like  a  caged  lion.  At  last  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  not  read  all  his  son's  letter,  so  catching  it  up,  he 
read  it  through,  and  found  added  as  a  postscript,  the  fol 
lowing  clause :  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Mary's  father  is 
very  wealthy,  and  she  is  his  only  child." 

This  announcement  changed  the  old  squire  at  once; 
his  feelings  underwent  an  entire  revolution,  and  he  now 
regretted  that  Ira  had  not  written  that  he  had  proposed 
and  was  accepted.  "But,"  thought  the  squire,  "of 
course  she  '11  accept  him ;  she  cannot  refuse  such  a  boy  as 
Ira." 

And  yet  she  did !  With  many  tears  she  confessed  her 
love,  but  said  that  far  away  over  the  seas  was  one  to 
whom  she  had  been  betrothed  almost  from  childhood ;  he 
was  kind  and  noble,  and  until  she  saw  Ira  Herndon,  she 
had  thought  she  loved  him.  Said  she,  "  I  have  given  him 
so  many  assurances  that  I  would  be  his,  that  I  cannot  re 
call  them.  I  love  you,  Ira,  far  better,  but  I  esteem  Mr. 
S.,  and  respect  myself  so  much  that  I  cannot  break  my 
word."  No  argument  of  Ira's  could  induce  her  to 
change  her  resolution,  and  a  few  days  before  he  waa 
graduated,  he  saw  his  Mary,  with  a  face  white  as  marble, 
pronounce  the  vows  which  bound  her  to  another. 


254        THE  OLD  BED  HOUSE  AilONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

ALICE'S     MOTHER. 

THREE  years  after  the  closing  incidents  of  the  last  chap 
ter,  Ira  was  practicing  law  near  the  eastern  boundary  of 
the  state  of  New  York.  From  his  office  windows  he  fre 
quently  noticed  a  beautiful  young  girl  of  not  more  than  six 
teen  summers,  who  passed  and  repassed  every  day  to  and 
from  school.  Her  plain  calico  frock,  coarse  linen  apron, 
and  cambric  sun-bonnet,  showed  that  she  was  not  a  child 
of  wealth,  and  yet  there  was  something  about  her  face 
and  appearance  strangely  fascinating  to  the  young  lawyer. 

He  at  length  became  acquainted  with  her,  and  found 
that  her  name  was  Lucy  Edwards,  that  she  was  the  adop 
ted  child  of  the  family  with  whom  she  lived,  and  also  the 
half  sister  of  the  famous  Aunt  Polly,  among  the  moun 
tains.  Ira  fancied  that  she  resembled  Mary  Calvert,  who 
was  now  lost  to  him  forever,  and  ere  he  was  aware  of  it, 
he  was  forming  plans  for  the  future,  in  all  of  which  the 
young  Lucy  played  a  conspicuous  part.  Before  the  sum 
mer  was  over,  he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  She  gave 
her  consent  willingly,  for  she  was  ambitious,  and  had  long 
sighed  for  something  better  than  the  humble  home  in 
which  her  childhood  had  been  passed. 

When  next  Ira  visited  his  father,  he  was  accompanied 
bj  Lucy,  who  was  intending  to  spend  several  days  with 
her  sister.  On  parting  with  her  at  the  hotel,  he  told  her 
that  the  day  following  he  would  seek  an  interview  with 
his  father,  to  whom  he  would  acknowledge  their  engage 
ment,  and  ask  him  to  sanction  their  union.  Of  that  in 
terview  between  father  and  son,  we  will  speak  but  little. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Squire  Hern  don,  in  his  rage,  almost 


ALICE'S  MOTHER.  255 

cursed  his  son  for  presuming  to  think  of  a  poor,  humble 
girl,  whose  sister  disgraced  her  sex  by  telling  fortunes, 
and  finished  his  abuse  by  swearing  to  disinherit  Ira  the 
moment  he  should  hear  of  his  marrying  Lucy  Edwards. 
Ira  knew  his  father  too  well  to  think  of  softening 
him  by  argument,  so  he  rushed  from  his  presence,  and 
was  soon  on  his  way  to  the  red  house  among  the  moun 
tains,  where  Lucy  was  anxiously  watching  for  him. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  him  coming  up  the  mountain  path, 
she  ran  eagerly  to  meet  him.  At  one  glance  she  saw  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  urged  him  to  tell  her  the 
worst.  In  as  few  words  as  possible,  he  related  to  her 
what  had  passed  between  himself  and  his  father.  When 
he  finished  speaking,  Lucy  burst  into  tears,  and  said 
mournfully,  "  And  so  you  will  leave  me,  Ira  ?  I  might 
have  known  it  would  be  so." 

Ira  was  touched,  and  laying  his  hand  on  Lucy's  dark 
locks,  he  vowed  that  she  should  be  his,  even  at  the  cost 
of  his  father's  curse.  When  they  reached  the  gate,  Lucy 
said,  "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Polly  has  company — the 
Quakeress,  Dolly  Dutton — but  you  need  not  mind  her." 

After  entering  the  house,  Aunt  Polly  gradually  led  Ira 
to  speak  of  the  interview  between  himself  and  his  father. 
By  the  tune  he  had  finished,  Mrs.  Carey's  wrath  was  wax 
ing  warmer  and  warmer. 

"  Ira  Herndon,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  cowardly  if 
you  do  not  show  your  independence  by  marrying  whom 
you  please." 

"  I  intend  to  marry  Lucy  at  some  future  time,"  an- 
swered  Ira. 

"  Fudge  on  some  future  time ! "  was  Aunt  Polly's 
Bcornful  answer;  "why  not  marry  her  now?  You'll 
never  have  a  better  time.  We'll  all  keep  it  a  secret,  so 
your  old  father  will  not  cut  you  oif.  Amos  will  go  for 


256        THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Parson  Landon,  who  will  not  blab  ;  and  here  to-night  wo 
will  have  the  knot  tied.  What  say  you  ?  " 

Ira  hesitated.  He  did  not  care  about  being  married  SD 
hurriedly,  and  could  he  have  considered  until  the  mor 
row,  he  probably  would  have  withstood  all  temptation ; 
but  as  it  was,  he  was  overruled,  and  finally  gave  his  con 
sent  that  the  ceremony  should  take  place  that  night. 
Parson  Landon  was  accordingly  sent  for,  and  ere  Ira  had 
time  to  think  what  he  was  doing,  he  was  the  husband  of 
Lucy  Edwards,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carey  and  Dolly  Dutton 
alone  witnessing  the  ceremony.  When  it  was  completed, 
Aunt  Polly  said,  "  Now  we  must  all  keep  this  a  secret, 
for -if  it  comes  to  Squire  Herndon's  ear,  he'll  sartingly 
cut  'm  off." 

The  minister  and  Dolly  readily  promised  silence,  but 
Ira  said  "he  cared  not  a  farthing  whether  his  father 
knew  it  or  not,  and  thought  seriously  of  telling  him  all." 

This  announcement  was  received  by  Aunt  Polly  with 
such  a  burst  of  indignation,  and  by  Lucy  with  such  a 
gush  of  tears,  that  Ira  was  glad  to  promise  that  he,  too, 
would  say  nothing  on  the  subject ;  but  the  painful  thought 
entered  his  mind,  that  possibly  Lucy  had  married  him 
more  from  a  love  of  wealth  than  from  love  to  him. 

In  a  few  days  he  returned  to  the  village  where  they 
resided,  leaving  Lucy  with  her  sister  for  a  time.  At 
length  he  decided  to  remove  to  the  village  of  C.,  in  the 
western  part  of  New  York,  where  Lucy  soon  joined  him. 
Here  Alice  was  born.  When  she  was  about  six  months 
old,  her  father  received  a  very  lucrative  offer,  the  accep 
tance  of  which  required  that  he  should  go  to  India.  For 
himself,  he  did  not  hesitate,  but  his  wife  and  child  needed 
his  protection.  To  take  the  infant  Alice  to  that  hot 
clime,  was  to  insure  her  death,  and  he  had  no  wish  that 
Lucy  should  remain  behind. 


ALICE'S  MOTHEK.  257 

In  tins  extremity,  Lucy  thought  of  Aunt  Polly,  and 
proposed  that  Alice  should  be  left  with  her.  After  much 
consultation,  Aunt  Polly  was  written  to,  and,  as  she  con 
sented  to  take  the  child,  Lucy  started  with  Alice  to  place 
her  under  Mrs.  Carey's  care.  When  within  a  mile  of  the 
village,  she  directed  the  stage  driver  to  let  her  alight ; 
she  did  not  wish  to  pass  through  the  village,  but,  striking 
into  a  circuitous  path,  she  soon  reached  Uncle  Amos' 
house  unobserved,  save  by  the  man  and  woman  whom  we 
mentioned  in  our  second  chapter. 

Aunt  Polly  regularly  received  remittances  from  Mr. 
Herndon  for  the  support  of  his  child,  of  whom  he  always 
spoke  with  much  affection.  Lucy,  weak  and  frivolous  in 
her  nature,  felt  constrained  to  manifest  some  love  for  her 
offspring,  but  it  was  evident  to  Aunt  Polly  that  she  was 
heartily  glad  to  be  relieved  of  the  care  of  little  Alice. 

When  Alice  was  five  years  of  age,  there  came  a  lettei 
bearing  an  ominous  seal  of  black.  With  a  trembling  hand 
Aunt  Polly  opened  it,  and,  as  she  had  feared,  learned  that 
her  young  and  beautiful  sister,  at  the  early  age  of  twen 
ty-two,  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  far  off,  'neath  the 
tropical  skies  of  India.  That  night  the  motherless  Alice 
looked  wonderingiy  into  the  face  of  Aunt  Polly,  whose 
tears  fell  thick  and  fast,  as  she  clasped  the  awe-stricken 
child  to  her  bosom,  and  said,  "  You  are  mine  forever, 
now."  Alice  remembered  this  in  after  years,  and  wept 
over  the  death  of  a  mother  whom  she  never  knew. 
17 


258        THE  OLD  T?rcn  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
THE  WANDEEEK'S  EETUKN. 

FIETEEN  years  had  flown  on  rapid  wing  since  Alice  be- 
came  an  inmate  of  the  old  red  house  among  the  moun 
tains.  As  yet  she  had  no  suspicion  that  she  was  other 
than  the  child  of  Uncle  Amos  and  Aunt  Polly.  Under 
their  guardianship,  and  the  watchful  supervision  of  Mrs. 
Seymour,  she  had  grown  into  a  tall,  beautiful  girl  of  fif 
teen.  The  childish  predilection  which  she  had  early 
shown  for  Frank,  had  now  ripened  into  a  stronger  feeling, 
and,  although  she  would  scarcely  acknowledge  it,  even  to 
herself,  there  was  not,  in  all  the  wide  world,  an  individ 
ual  who  possessed  so  much  influence  over  the  shrinking, 
timid  mountain  girl,  as  did  Frank,  who  was  now  verging 
on  to  eighteen. 

Some  changes  have  taken  place  since  we  last  looked 
upon  the  boy  and  girl,  but  we  will  again  introduce  them 
to  our  readers,  at  the  respective  ages  of  eighteen  and  fif 
teen.  It  was  a  mild  September  afternoon.  The  long  line 
of  mountain  tops  was  enveloped  by  a  blue,  hazy  mist, 
while  the  dense  green  of  the  towering  forest  trees  was 
interspersed  here  and  there  by  leaflets  of  a  brighter  hue, 
betokening  the  gradual  but  sure  approach  of  nature's  sad 
decay. 

In  the  little  vine-wreathed  portico  of  Uncle  Amos' 
house,  are  seated  our  old  friends,  Frank  and  Alice.  He 
has  changed  much  since  we  last  saw  him,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  same  roguish  twinkle  of  his  hazel  eyes,  we  should 
hardly  recognize  the  mischievous  school-boy,  Frank,  in 
the  taD,  handsome  youth  before  us.  During  the  last  year 
he  lias  been  in  college,  but  his  vacations  have  all  beea 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.  259 

spent  at  homo,  and  as  his  mother  half  reprovingly  said, 
"  three-fourths  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  Alice." 

The  afternoon  of  which  we  are  speaking  had  been  spent 
by  them  alone,  for  Aunt  Polly  was  visiting  in  the  village. 
Frank  was  just  wishing  she  would  delay  her  coming  un 
til  nine  o'clock,  when  she  was  seen  hurrying  toward  the 
house  at  an  astonishingly  rapid  rate  for  her,  for  she  was 
rather  asthmatic. 

As  soon  as  she  had  reached  home,  and  found  breath  to 
speak,  she  said,  "Alice,  did  you  know  your — did  you  know 
Squire  Herndon's  son  Ira  had  come  home  from  the  Indies  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  so  to-day,"  said  Alice  quietly,  "  and  I'm 
glad,  too,  for  'twill  cheer  up  his  father,  who  is  sick,  and 
seems  very  lonely  and  unhappy." 

"  He  ought  to  be  lonely,"  said  Frank.  "  In  my  opin 
ion  he  is  a  hard  old  customer ;  and  yet  I  always  speak  to 
the  old  gentleman  when  I  meet  him,  for  he  is  very  re 
spectful  to  me.  But  is  n't  it  queer,  mother  will  never  let 
me  say  a  word  against  the  old  squire.  I  sometimes  tease 
her  by  saying  that  she  evidently  intends,  sometime,  to 
become  Mrs.  Herndon.  If  she  does,  you  and  I,  Alice, 
will  be  Herndons  too." 

Alice  was  about  to  reply,  when  Aunt  Polly  prevented 
her  by  saying,  "  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Seymour,  that  Alice 
will  be  a  Herndon  before  your  mother  is." 

Alice  looked  wonderingly  at  Aunt  Polly,  while  Frank 
said,  "  Wliich  will  she  marry,  the  old  squire,  or  the  re 
turned  Indian !  Let  me  fix  it.  Alice  marry  the  squire 
— my  mother  marry  his  son,  and  then  Alice  will  be  my 
grandmother  ?  " 

He  was  rattling  on,  when  Aunt  Polly  stopped  him,  and 
going  up  to  Alice,  she  wound  her  arms  about  her,  and  in 
trembling  tones  said,  "  Alice,  my  child,  my  darling,  you 


260   THE  OLD  BED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

must  forgive  me  for  having  deceived  you  so.  You  are 
not  my  child  !  " 

"  Not  your  child !  "  said  Alice,  wildly. 

"  Not  your  child ! "  echoed  Frank,  starting  up, 
"  Whose  child  is  she,  then  ?  Speak;  tell  us  quickly !  " 

"  Her  father  is  Ira  Herndon,  and  her  mother  was  my 
half  sister,  Lucy,"  answered  Aunt  Polly. 

Heavily  the  yielding  form  of  Alice  sank  into  the  arms 
of  Frank,  who  bore  the  faulting  girl  into  the  house,  and 
placed  her  upon  the  lounge.  Then  turning  to  Aunt  Polly, 
he  said,  "  Is  what  you  have  told  us  true  ?  and  does  .Mr. 
Herndon  own  his  daughter  ?  " 

"  It's  all  true  as  the  gospel,"  answered  Mrs.  Carey, 
and  Mr.  Herndon  is  corning  this  night  to  see  her." 

Frank  pressed  one  kiss  on  Alice's  white  lips,  and  then 
hurried  away.  Bitter  thoughts  were  crowding  upon  him 
and  choking  his  utterance.  Why  was  lie  so  aifected  ? 
Was  he  sorry  that  Alice  belonged  to  the  proud  race  of 
Herndons, — that  wealth  and  family  distinction  were  sud 
denly  placed  before  her  ?  Yes,  he  was  sorry,  for  now  was 
he  fearful  that  his  treasure  would  be  snatched  from  him. 
He  understood  the  haughty  pride  of  Squire  Herndon, 
and  he  feared  that  his  son,  too,  might  be  like  him,  and 
refuse  his  Alice  to  one  so  obscure  as  Frank  fancied  him 
self  to  be. 

On  reaching  home,  he  rushed  into  the  little  parlor  in 
which  his  mother  was  sitting,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
the  sofa,  exclaimed  passionately,  "  Mother,  I  do  not  wish 
to  return  to  college.  It  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  try  to  be 
anything,  now." 

"  Why,  Frank,"  said  his  mother,  in  much  alarm,  "  what 
has  happened  to  disturb  you  ?  " 

"  Enough  has  happened,"   answered  Frank,  "  Alice  is 


THE  WAKDERER'S  RETURN.  261 

rict^ — an  heiress  ;   and,  worse  than  all,  she  is  old  Squire 
Herndon's  grand-daughter !  " 

"  Squire  Herndon's  grand-daughter !  "  repeated  Mrs. 
Seymour,  "  How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  is  Mr.  Ira  Herndon's  daughter,  and  he  has 
come  to  claim  her,"  said  Frank. 

White  as  marble  grew  the  cheek  and  forehead  of  Mrs. 
Seymour,  and  her  voice  was  thick  and  indistinct,  as  she 
said,  "  Ira  Herndon  come  home, — and  Alice's  father  too  ?  " 

Frank  darted  to  her  side,  exclaiming,  "  Why,  mother, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  You  are  as  cold  and  white  as  Alice 
was  when  they  told  her.  Are  you,  too,  Ira  Herndon's 
daughter  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Seymour,  "  but  I  know  Mr.  Hern 
don  well.  Do  not  ask  me  more  now.  Be  satisfied  when 
I  tell  you  that  if  he  is  the  same  man  he  used  to  be,  you 
need  have  no  fears  for  Alice.  Now  leave  me ;  I  would 
be  alone." 

Frank  obeyed,  wondering  much  what  had  come  over 
his  mother.  Does  the  reader  wonder,  too  ?  Have  you 
not  suspected  that  Mrs.  Seymour  was  the  Mary  Calvert, 
who,  years  ago,  gave  her  hand  to  one,  while  her  heart 
belonged  to  Ira  Herndon  ?  Her  story  is  soon  told.  She 
had  respected  her  husband,  and  had  struggled  hard  to 
conquer  her  love  for  one  whom  it  were  a  sin  to  think  of 
now.  In  a  measure  she  succeeded,  and  when,  four  years 
after  her  marriage,  she  stood  by  the  open  grave  of  her 
husband,  she  was  a  sincere  mourner,  for  now  she  was 
alone  in  the  world,  her  father  having  been  dead  some 
time.  He  had  died  insolvent,  and  when  her  husband's 
estate  was  settled,  it  was  found  that  there  was  just 
enough  property  left  to  support  herself  and  son  com- 
fortably. 

A  few  years  after,  she  chanced  to  be  traveling  through 


£62        THE  OLD  EED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

the  western  part  of  the  state,  and  curiosity  led  her  to 
the  village  where  she  knew  Squire  Herndon  resided. 
She  was  pleased  with  the  romantic  situation  of  the  place, 
and  learning  that  the  neat,  white  cottage  among  the 
mountains  was  for  sale,  she  purchased  it,  and  soon  after 
removed  thither.  This,  then,  was  the  history  of  the  wo 
man  whose  frame  shook  with  so  much  emotion  at  the  men 
tion  of  Ira  Herndon. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

FATHER     AND     CHILD. 

had  settled  around  the  old  red  house  among  the 
mountains,  where  Alice  was  listening  eagerly,  while  Aunt 
Polly  recounted  the  incidents  we  have  already  related. 
Suddenly  a  shadow  darkened  the  casement,  through  which 
the  moon  was  pouring  a  flood  of  silvery  light.  A  heavy 
footfall  echoed  on  the  little  piazza,  and  in  a  moment  Ira 
Herndon  stood  within  the  room,  transfixed  with  surprise 
at  the  beautiful  vision  which  Aunt  Polly  presented  to  him, 
saying,  "  This  is  Alice,  your  daughter.  I  have  loved  her 
as  my  own ;  but  take  her, — she  is  yours." 

Something  of  Alice's  old  timidity  returned,  and  she 
was  half  inclined  to  spring  through  the  open  door,  but 
when  she  ventured  at  length  to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  face 
of  the  tall,  fine  looking  man  before  her,  a  thrill  of  joy 
and  pride  ran  through  her  heart,  and  twining  her  soft, 
white  arms  around  the  stranger's  neck,  she  murmured, 


FATHER  AND  CHILD.  263 

"Am  I,  indeed,  your  daughter, — and  may  I  call  you 
father  ?  " 

"  God  bless  you,  Alice,  my  child,  my  daughter,"  was 
the  answer,  as  Ira  folded  his  newly  found  treasure  to  his 
bosom.  At  that  moment  Uncle  Amos  entered,  and  saw 
at  a  glance  how  matters  stood.  Tear  after  tear  rolled 
down  his  sun-burnt  cheek,  as  taking  the  hard  hand  of  his 
faithful  old  wife,  he  said,  "  Yes,  Polly,  she  will  love  him 
and  go  with  him,  and  we  shall  be  left  alone  in  our  old 
age." 

Alice  released  herself  from  her  father's  embrace,  and 
going  up  to  the  weeping  old  man,  fondly  caressed  him, 
saying,  "  I  will  always  love  you,  and  call  you  father,  too, 
for  a  kind,  devoted  parent  you  have  been  to  me  for  fifteen 
years,  when  I  knew  no  other." 

"  Nor  need  you  ever  be  separated,"  said  Mr.  Herndon, 
"  if  you  will  go  with  Alice.  I  have  wealth  enough  for  us 
all,  and  will  gladly  share  it  with  you." 

To  this  generous  offer  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carey  made  no  re 
ply,  and  Ira  continued :  "  I  have  to-day  told  my  father 
all,  and  I  regret  I  did  not  do  so  years  ago." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Polly,  quickly. 

"He  said  not  a  word,  save  that  he  wished  he  had 
known  it  before,"  answered  Mr.  Herndon.  "  He  seems 
t^uite  ill,  and  I  am  fearful  his  days  are  numbered." 

At  a  late  hour  that  night  Mr.  Herndon  took  leave  of 
his  daughter,  promising  to  introduce  her  to  her  grand 
father  as  soon  as  possible. 


204        TELE  OLD  liED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAIN*. 

CHAFIER  X. 

THE     OLD     MAN'S     DEATH-BED. 

HIGH  up  in  one  of  the  lofty  chambers  of  the  Herndon 
mansion,  an  old  man  lay  dying.  What  mattered  it  now, 
that  the  bedstead  on  which  he  lay  was  of  the  costliest 
mahogany,  or  the  sheets  of  the  finest  linen !  Death  was 
there,  waiting  eagerly  for  his  expected  victim.  Mem 
ory  was  busily  at  work,  and  far  back  through  a  long  era 
of  by-gone  years,  arose  a  dark  catalogue  of  sin,  which 
made  the  sick  man  shudder  as  he  tossed  from  side  to  side 
in  his  feverish  delirium.  "  Away,  away,"  he  would  shout, 
with  maniacal  frenzy.  "  I  did  not  turn  you  all  from  my 
door.  I  only  told  my  servants  to  do  it.  And  you,  star 
ving,  weeping  women,  I  only  did  what  thousands  have 
done  when  I  sold  your  all,  and  imprisoned  your  husbands 
for  debt.  Away !  I  say.  Don't  taunt  me  with  it  now." 
Then  his  manner  would  soften,  and  he  would  call  out, 
"But  stay, — is  it  money  you  want?  Take  it ; — take  all 
I've  got,  and  let  that  atone  for  the  past." 

At  this  juncture  Ira  entered  the  room,  on  his  return 
from  visiting  his  daughter.  He  was  greatly  alarmed  at 
the  change  in  his  father,  but  learning  that  a  physician  had 
been  sent  for,  he  sat  down,  and  endeavored  to  soothe  his 
father's  excitement.  He  succeeded,  and  when  the  phy- 
eician  arrived,  he  found  his  patient  sleeping  quietly. 
From  this  sleep,  however,  he  soon  awoke,  fully  restored 
to  consciousness. 

Turning  to  his  son,  he  said,  "  Ira,  did  n't  you  tell  me 
ehe  was  your  child  ?  " 

Mr.  Herndon  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  the  old 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  DEATH-BET).  265 

man  continued :  "  I  would  see  her  ere  I  die.  Send  for 
her  quickly,  for  the  morning  will  not  find  me  here." 

Ira  arose  to  do  his  father's  bidding,  when  he  added, 
"  And,  Ira,  I  must  make  my  will ;  send  for  the  proper 
persons,  will  you  ?  " 

Ira  saw  that  his  father's  orders  were  executed,  and  then 
returned  to  his  bedside  to  await  the  coming  of  Alice. 
She  was  aroused  from  a  sound  sleep,  and  told  that  her 
grandfather  was  dying,  and  would  see  her.  Hurriedly 
dressing  herself,  she  was  soon  on  her  way  to  the  village. 
As  she  entered  her  grandfather's  house,  she  looked 
around  her  in  amazement  at  the  splendor  which  sur 
rounded  her. 

As  she  advanced  into  the  sick-room,  Squire  Herndon 
fixed  his  dark,  bright  eye  upon  her,  and  said,  "  Alice, 
they  tell  me  you  are  my  grand-daughter ;  I  would  I  had 
known  it  before ;  but  come  nearer  to  me  now,  and  let  me 
bless  you." 

Alice  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  the  white-haired  man, 
whose  hand  was  laid  amid  her  silken  curls,  as  he  uttered 
a  blessing  upon  the  fair  young  girl.  When  she  arose,  he 
said  to  his  son,  "  Now  I  must  make  my  will.  Call  in  the 
lawyer." 

The  words  caught  Alice's  ear,  and  involuntarily  she 
sprang  back  to  her  grandfather,  and  kissing  his  feverish 
brow,  said,  "  Dear  grandpa,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  some 
thing, — could  ask  you  something." 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ?  "  asked  her  grandfather.  "  Let 
me  know  your  request,  and  it  shall  be  granted." 

Alice  blushed  deeply,  for  she  felt  that  her  father's  eye 
was  upon  her,  but  she  unhesitatingly  said,  "You  have 
seen  Frank,  grandfather, — you  know  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  squire.  "I  know  him  and  like 
him,  too.  I  understand  you,  Alice ;  I  will  do  right." 


20(3   THE  OLD  KED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Alice  again  kissed  him,  and  then  quitted  the  apartment* 
in  which,  for  the  next  half  hour,  was  heard  the  scratch* 
ings  of  the  lawyer's  pen,  and  the  faint  tones  of  the  dying 
one,  as  he  dictated  his  will. 


CHAPTER  XL 

I'HE      RECOGNITION. 

SOFTLY  from^fche  rosy  east  came  the  glorious  king  of 
day,  shedding  light  and  warmth  over  hill  and  dale,  river 
and  streamlet,  tree  and  shrub.  In  the  same  room  where 
he  had  passed  away,  Squire  Herndon  lay  in  a  long,  eter 
nal  sleep.  The  servants  held  their  breath,  and  whispered 
as  they  trod  softly  through  the  darkened  rooms,  as  if 
fearful  of  disturbing  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  dead. 

The  villagers  met  together,  and  their  voices  were  sub 
dued,  as  they  said,  one  to  the  other,  "  Squire  Herndon  is 
dead."  Yes,  Squire  Herndon  was  dead,  and  little  chil 
dren  paused  in  their  play  as  the  solemn  peal  of  the  village 
bell  rang  out  on  the  clear  autumn  air,  wakening  the 
echoes  of  the  tall  blue  mountains,  and  dying  away  down 
the  bright  green  valley.  The  knell  was  repeated  again 
and  again,  and  then  came  the  strokes,  louder,  faster,  and 
the  children  counted  until  they  were  tired,  for  seventy- 
five  years  had  the  old  man  numbered.  At  length  the 
sounds  ceased,  and  the  children  went  on  with  their  noisy 
sports,  forgetful  that  death  was  among  them. 

In  the  Herndon  mansion  many  whispered  consultations 
were  held,  as  to  how  the  body  should  be  arranged  for 
burial.  It  was  finally  decided  to  send  for  Mrs.  Seymour, 


THE  EECOGNITION.  267 

"She  is  tasty  and  genteel,"  said  one,  "and  knows  how 
such  things  should  be  done." 

Mrs.  Seymour  did  not  refuse,  for  she  felt  it  her  duty  to 
go ;  and  yet  she  would  much  rather  have  braved  the 
storm  of  battle  than  enter  that  house.  She,  however, 
bade  the  messenger  return,  saying  she  would  soon  follow, 
When  alone  with  her  thoughts,  she  for  an  instant  wavered. 
How  could  she  go  ?  How  again  stand  face  to  face  with 
the  only  man  she  ever  loved  ?  Yet  she  did  go,  trusting 
that  nineteen  years  had  so  changed  her  that  she  would 
not  be  recognized. 

Under  her  directions,  everything  about  the  house  was 
done  so  quietly,  that  there  was  nothing  to  grate  on  the 
ear  of  him  who  sat  alone  in  the  large,  silent  parlor.  He 
intuitively  felt  that  some  kindred  spirit  was  at  work  there, 
and  calling  Alice  to  him,  he  asked  "  who  the  lady  was 
that  seemed  to  be  superintending  affairs  so  well." 

"  Mrs.  Seymour,"  answered  Alice. 

"  Mrs.  Seymour,"  repeated  her  father,  as  if  dreamily 
trying  to  recall  some  past  event. 

"Yes,4  Mrs.  Seymour,"  said  Alice.  "She  is  Frank's 
mother,  and  a  widow." 

In  an  adjoining  room,  Mrs.  Seymour,  with  a  beating 
heart,  listened  to  the  tones  of  that  voice  which  she  had 
never  hoped  to  hear  again.  Earnestly  did  she  wish  to 
see  the  face  of  one  whose  very  voice  could  affect  her  so 
powerfully.  Her  wish  was  gratified,  for  at  that  moment 
Alice  opened  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Seymour's  eyes  fell  upon 
the  features  of  him  whose  remembrance  she  had  so  long 
cherished.  She  was  somewhat  disappointed,  for  the  trop 
ical  suns  of  fifteen  years  had  embrowned  his  once  white 
forehead,  and  a  few  gray  hairs  mingled  with  the  dark 
locks  which  lay  around  his  brow. 

Alice  was  surprised  at  the  wild,  passionate  embrace 


268        THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNT  AIMS. 

which  Mrs.  Seymour  gave  her,  as  leading  her  to  the  win 
dow,  she  looked  wistfully  in  her  face,  and  said,  "  My  dear 
Alice,  tenfold  more  my  child  than  ever." 

Alarmed  at  the  increased  paleness  of  her  friend,  Alice 
started  forward,  and  said,  "  You  are  sick,  faint,  Mrs.  Sey 
mour.  Let  me  call  Mr.  Herndon, — I  mean  my  father." 

But  Mrs.  Seymour  was  not  faint,  and  she  endeavored 
to  prevent  Alice  from  calling  her  father,  but  in  vain.  Al 
ice  called  him,  and  he  came.  His  daughter  stood  in  front 
of  Mrs.  Seymour,  whose  cheeks  glowed  and  whose  eyes 
sparkled  with  the  intensity  of  her  feelings,  as  she  met  the 
searching  glance  of  Ira  Herndon. 

He  recognized  her, — knew,  as  if  by  instinct,  that  he 
again  beheld  Mary  Calvert ;  but  the  fever  of  youth  no 
longer  burned  in  his  veins,  so  he  did  nothing  foolish.  He 
merely  grasped  her  hand,  exclaiming,  "  Mary — Mary  Cal 
vert, —  Mrs.  Seymour!  God  be  praised,  we  have  met 
again ! " 


CHAPTER  XH. 

THE      FUNERAL. 

Two  days  passed.  The  third  came,  and  again  over  hill 
and  valley  floated  a  funeral  knell.  Groups  of  villagers 
moved  with  slow  and  measured  tread  toward  the  late  res 
idence  of  Squire  Herndon.  Forth  from  many  a  mountain 
cottage  and  many  a  village  dwelling  came  the  inhabitants, 
old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  to  attend  the  funeral. 

On  a  marble-topped  table  stood  the  rich,  mahogany 
coffin,  in  which  lay  the  remains  of  one  who  for  many 
years  had  excited  the  admiration,  envy,  jealousy,  and  ha- 


THE  rUNEEAL.  269 


tred  of  the  people,  many  of  whom  now  trod  those  spa 
cious  halls  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives.  N"ear  the  cof 
fin  sat  Ira.  At  him  the  villagers  gazed  anxiously,  but 
their  eyes  soon  moved  on  until  they  rested  upon  the  fair 
Alice,  who  had  been  so  suddenly  transformed  from  the 
humble  mountain  girl  into  the  wealthy  heiress. 

Uncle  Amos  and  Aunt  Polly  were  there,  too.  Ira  had 
kindly  and  thoughtfully  invited  them  to  take  seats  with 
himself  and  daughter,  as  mourners  for  the  deceased. 
Aunt  Polly  appeared  arrayed  in  a  dress  of  costly  black 
silk,  and  shawl  of  the  same  texture.  They  were  the  gift 
of  Ira,  and  for  fear  of  being  disputed,  we  will  not  tell  how 
many  times  the  good  lady  managed  to  move  so  that  the 
rustle  of  her  garments  might  be  heard  by  her  neighbors, 
who  remarked,  that  "Aunt  Polly  seemed  a  plaguy  sight 
more  stuck  up  than  Alice  ;  "  and  yet  the  benevolent  ma 
tron  looked  down  complacently  upon  them,  thinking  how 
kind  and  amiable  she  was,  not  to  feel  above  them  ! 

At  last  the  funeral  services  were  over.  Down  one 
street  and  up  another  moved  the  long  line  of  carriages  and 
people  on  foot,  to  the  grave-yard,  where  was  an  open 
grave,  into  which  the  body  was  lowered,  "  earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust." 

As  the  company  were  leaving  the  church-yard,  Alice 
suddenly  found  herself  by  the  side  of  Frank.  She  had 
seen  him  but  once  before  since  her  grandfather's  death, 
and  then  she  had  won  from  him  a  promise  that  after  the 
funeral  he  would  return  with  her  to  what  henceforth 
would  be  her  home.  She  now  reminded  him  of  his  prom 
ise,  at  the  same  time  introducing  him  to  her  father,  whom 
she  observed  closely,  to  see  what  impression  Frank  would 
make.  It  was  favorable,  for  no  one  could  look  at  Frank 
and  dislike  him.  Rather  unwillingly  he  consented  to  ao- 


270       THE  OLD  EED  HOEhJfi  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

company  them  home.  He  could  not  imagine  what  Alice 
wanted  of  him,  but  was  not  long  kept  in  doubt. 

The  will  of  Squire  Herndon  was  soon  produced  and  read. 
The  old  man  had  intended  to  bequeath  most  of  his  prop 
erty  to  his  son,  but  this  Ira  would  not  suffer.  He  had 
more  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with,  already,  he  said,  and 
greatly  preferred  that  his  father  should  give  it  all  to  Al 
ice,  or  divide  it  between  her  and  Frank,  as  he  saw  proper. 
Accordingly,  after  bestowing  twenty-five  thousand  dol 
lars  in  charitable  purposes,  the  remainder  of  his  property, 
amounting  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  was 
equally  divided  between  Frank  and  Alice,  Ira  being  ap 
pointed  their  guardian. 

Frank  at  first  declined  the  wealth  so  unexpectedly 
placed  before  him,  but  Alice  and  her  father  finally  over 
ruled  him,  the  latter  saying,  playfully,  "  You  may  as  well 
take  as  a  gift  from  the  grandfather  what  you  would  prob 
ably  sometime  receive  with  the  grand-daughter."  So 
Frank  was  finally  persuaded;  but  he  bore  his  fortune 
meekly,  and  when  next  he  returned  to  college,  no  one 
would  have  suspected  that  he  was  the  heir  of  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars. 


CHAPTER  XHL 
"ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL." 


long  after  Frank  returned  to  college,  Alice,  also, 
was  sent  to  Troy,  N.  Y.,  to  complete  her  education. 
Soon  after  she  left,  her  father  invited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ca 
rey  to  share  with  him  his  house,  but  they  had  good  sense 
enough  to  know  that  they  would  be  far  happier  in  their 


"ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL."  271 

own  mountain  home,  so  Ira  settled  upon  them  an  annuity 
for  the  remainder  of  their  lives. 

When  the  warm  sun  of  an  early  spring  had  melted  the 
ice  from  the  brooks  and  the  snow  from  off  the  hillside,  there 
was  a  wedding  at  the  little  white  cottage.  Parson  Lan- 
don  again  officiated,  and  Ira  Herndon  was  the  bridegroom, 
but  the  bride  this  tune  was  our  friend,  Mrs.  Seymour, 
whose  face,  always  handsome,  seemed  suddenly  renovated 
with  a  youthful  bloom  and  loveliness.  Aunt  Polly,  too, 
was  present,  and  declared  that  the  ceremony  gave  her 
more  satisfaction  than  did  the  one  which  took  place  sev 
enteen  years  before,  beneath  her  own  roof.  After  the 
wedding,  Mrs.  Seymour,  now  Mrs.  Herndon,  removed  to 
her  husband's  home  in  the  village.  The  villagers  hailed 
her  presence  among  them  as  a  new  era,  in  which  they 
could  hope  occasionally  to  visit  at  the  "  great  house,"  as 
they  were  in  the  habit  of  calling  Squire  Herndon's  former 
residence. 

We  now  pass  rapidly  over  a  period  of  little  more  than 
three  years,  during  which  time  Frank  was  graduated,  with 
honor,  of  course,  and  returning  home,  commenced  the 
study  of  law.  We  next  open  the  scene  on  a  bright  eve 
ning  in  October,  in  which  the  little  village  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  was  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  This 
excitement  was  not  manifest  in  the  streets,  but  in-doors , 
band-boxes  were  turned  inside  out,  drawers  upside  down, 
as  daughter  and  mother  tried  the  effect  of  caps,  ribbons, 
flowers,  &c. 

The  cause  of  all  the  commotion  was  this :  It  was  the 
bridal  night  of  Alice  Herndon,  at  whose  request  nearly  all 
the  villagers  were  invited  to  be  present.  At  eight  o'clock 
she  descended  to  the  crowded  parlors,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  the  words  were  spoken  which  transformed  her 
from  Alice  Herndon  into  Alice  Seymour. 


272        THE  OLD  RED  HOUSE  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

But  little  more  remains  to  be  said.  Alice  and  Frank 
resided  at  home,  with  their  parents,  who  had  gained  the 
respect  and  love  of  the  villagers  by  their  many  unosten 
tatious  acts  of  kindness  and  real  benevolence.  And  now, 
lest  some  curious  reader  should  travel  to  New  England 
for  the  purpose  of  discovering  whether  this  story  really 
be  true,  we  will  say  that  the  events  here  narrated  occur 
red  so  long  ago  that  there  is  probably  nothing  left  save 
the  cellar  and  well  to  mark  the  spot  where  once  stood 
"  the  old  red  house  among  the  mountains." 


's  Cndu 


CHAPTER  I. 

BEMIltflSCENCES. 

O'ER  Lake  Erie's  dark,  deep  waters,  —  across  Ohio's 
broad,  rioh  lands,  and  still  onward,  among  the  graceful 
forest  trees,  gushing  springs,  and  fertile  plains  of  Ken 
tucky,  rests  in  quiet  beauty,  the  shady  hillside,  bright- 
green  valley,  and  dancing  waterbrook,  known  as  Glen'a 
Creek.  ~No  stately  spire  or  glittering  dome  point  out  the 
spot  to  the  passing  traveler,  but  under  the  shadow  of  the 
lofty  trees,  stands  a  large  brick  edifice,  which  has  been 
consecrated  to  ike  worship  of  God.  There,  each  Sabbath, 
together  congregate  the  old  and  young,  the  lofty  and  the 
lowly,  bond  and  free,  and  the  incense  which  from  that  al 
tar  ascends  to  heaven  is  not  the  less  pure,  because  in  that 
secluded  spot  the  tones  of  the  Sabbath  bell  never  yet  were 
heard.  Not  far  from  the  old  brick  church  are  numerous, 
time  stained  grave-stones,  speaking  to  the  living  of  the 
pale  dead  ones,  who  side  by  side  He  sleeping,  unmindful 
of  the  wintry  storm  or  summer's  fervid  heat. 

A  little  farther  down  the  hill,  and  near  the  apple  tree, 
whose  apples  never  get  ripe,  stands  a  low  white  building, 
—  the  school  house  of  Glen's  Creek.  There,  for  several 
years,  "  Yankee  schoolmasters,"  one  after  another,  havo 
tried  by  turns  the  effect  of  moral  suasion,  hickory  sticks. 
18 


274  GLEN'S  CREEK, 

and  leathern  straps  on  the  girls  and  boys  who  there  as- 
semble,  some  intent  upon  mastering  the  mysteries  of  tho 
Latin  reader,  and  others  thinking  wistfully  of  the  minia 
ture  mill-dam  and  fish-pond  in  the  brook  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  or  of  the  play-house  under  the  maple  tree,  where  the 
earthens  are  each  day  washed  in  the  little  "  tin  bucket," 
which  serves  the  treble  purpose  of  dinner-pail,  wash-bowl, 
and  drinking-cup. 

But  not  with  Glen's  Creek  as  it  now  is  has  GUI  story 
aught  to  do,  although  few  have  been  the  changes  since,  in 
the  times  long  gone,  the  Indian  warrior  sought  shelter 
from  the  sultry  August  sun,  'neath  the  boughs  of  the  shady 
buckeye  or  towering  honey  locust,  which  so  thickly  stud 
the  hillside  of  Glen's  Creek.  Then,  as  now,  the  first 
spring  violet  blossomed  there,  and  the  earliest  crocus  grew 
near  the  stream  whose  waters  sang  as  mournfully  to  the 
dusky  maiden  of  the  forest,  as  they  since  have  to  the  fail- 
daughter  of  the  pale-face. 

The  incidents  about  to  be  narrated  are  believed  to  have 
taken  place  near  the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  when  the  country  of  Kentucky  from  Lexington 
to  Louisville,  was  one  entire  forest,  and  when,  instead  of 
the  planter's  handsome  dwelling,  now  so  common,  there 
was  only  the  rude  log  hut  surrounded,  perhaps,  by  a  few 
acres  of  half  cleared  land.  Brave,  indeed,  must  have  been 
the  heart  of  the  hardy  yeoman,  who,  forsaking  the  home 
of  his  fathers,  went  forth  into  the  wilds  of  Kentucky,  and 
there,  amid  dangers  innumerable,  laid  the  foundation  of 
the  many  handsome  towns  which  now  dot  the  surface  of 
that  fair  state.  Woman,  too,  timid,  shrinking  woman, 
was  there,  and  in  moments  of  the  most  appalling  danger 
the  daring  courage  she  displayed  equaled  that  shown  by 
her  husband,  father  and  brother.  Often  on  the  still  mid- 
night  air  rang  out  the  fearful  war-cry,  speaking  of  torture 


EEMIXISCENCES.  2  'i  «> 

and  death  to  the  inmates  of  the  rude  dwelling,  whose 
flames,  rising  high  over  the  tree  tops,  warned  some  other 
lonely  settler  that  the  enemy  was  upon  his  track. 

But  spite  of  all  dangers  and  difficulties,  the  tide  of  emi 
gration  poured  steadily  in  upon  Kentucky,  until  where 
once  the  Indian  hunter  and  wild  beast  held  undisputed 
sway,  there  may  now  be  seen  fertile  gardens  and  cultiva 
ted  fields,  handsome  towns  and  flourishing  cities. 


CHAPTER  II. 
I 

DEACON     WILDER. 

BRIGHTLY  looked  forth  the  stars  on  one  February  night, 
while  the  pale  moon,  yet  in  its  first  quarter,  hung  in  the 
western  sky,  illuminating  as  far  as  was  possible  the  little 
settlement  of  P ,  Virginia.  In  a  large  square  build 
ing,  the  house  of  Deacon  Wilder,  there  was  a  prayer 
meeting,  consisting  mostly  of  members  from  "  the  first 
families  in  Virginia." 

In  this  meeting  Deacon  Wilder  took  a  prominent  part, 
although  there  was  an  unusually  mournful  cadence  in  the 
tones  of  his  voice ;  and  twice  during  the  reading  of  the 
psalm  was  he  obliged  to  stop  for  the  purpose  of  wiping 
from  his  eyes  two  large  tear-drops,  which  seemed  sadly 
out  of  place  on  the  broad,  good-humored  face  of  the  dea 
con.  Other  eyes  there  were,  too,  on  whose  long  lashe? 
the  heavy  moisture  glistened,  and  whose  faces  told  of 
some  sad  event,  which  either  had  happened  or  was  about 
to  happen.  The  cause  of  all  this  sorrow  was  this :  Ere 
the  night  for  the  weekly  prayer  meeting  again  came,  Derv 


270  GLEN'S  CHEEK. 

con  Wilder  and  his  family,  who  were  universally  liked, 
would  be  far  on  the  road  toward  a  home  in  the  dense  for 
ests  of  Kentucky.  In  that  old-fashioned  kitchen  were 
many  who  had  come  long,  weary  miles  for  the  sake  of 
again  shaking  the  deacon's  hand,  and  again  telling  hig 
gentle  wife  how  surely  their  hearts  would  go  with  her  to 
her  home  in  the  far  west. 

The  meeting  proceeded  decently  and  in.  order,  as  meet 
ings  should,  until  near  its  close,  when  Deacon  Wilder,  for 
the  last  time,  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer  with  the  loved 
friends  and  neighbors  lie  was  leaving.  At  this  point,  the 
grief  of  the  little  company  burst  forth  unrestrainedly.  The 
white  portion  of  the  audience  gave  vent  to  their  feelings 
in  tears  and  half  smothered  sobs,  while  the  blacks,  of 
whom  there  was  a  goodly  number  present,  manifested 
their  sorrow  by  groans  and  loud  lamentations. 

Among  these  was  an  old  negro  named  Cato,  who,  to 
gether  with  his  wife  Dillah,  had  formerly  belonged  to 
Deacon  Wilder's  father,  but  on  his  death  they  had  passed 
into  the  possession  of  the  oldest  son,  Capt.  Wilder,  who 
lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  his  brother.  Old  Cato 
was  decidedly  a  Methodist  in  practice,  and  when  in  the 
course  of  his  prayer  Deacon  Wilder  mentioned  that  in  all 
human  probability  he  should  never  on  earth  meet  them 
again,  old  Cato,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  pillar  by  his 
colored  brethren,  forgetting  in  the  intensity  of  his  feelings 
the  exact  form  of  words  which  he  wanted,  fervently  ejacu 
lated,  "  Thank  the  Lord ! "  after  which  Dillah,  his  wife, 
uttered  a  hearty  "  Amen !  " 

This  mistake  in  the  choice  of  words  was  a  slight  set 
back  to  the  deacon,  who  was  feeling,  perhaps,  a  trifle 
gratified  at  seeing  himself  so  generally  regretted.  But 
Cato  and  Dillah  were  a  well-meaning  couple,  and  their 
mistake  passed  unnoticed,  save  by  the  young  people,  who 


DEACON   WILDER.  277 

smiled  a  little  mischievously.  The  meeting  continued  un 
til  a  late  hour,  and  the  hands  of  the  long  Dutch  clock 
pointed  the  hour  of  midnight,  ere  the  windows  of  Deacon 
Wilder's  dwelling  were  darkened,  and  its  inmates  were* 
dreaming,  may  be,  of  a  home  where  good-bys  and  partings 
were  unknown. 

Next  morning,  long  before  the  sun  had  dallied  with  the 
east  until  over  its  gray  cheek  the  blushes  of  daylight  were 
stealing,  the  deacon's  family  were  astir.  Fires  were  lighted 
in  the  fire-place,  candles  were  lighted  in  the  candlesticks, 
and  breakfast  was  swallowed  in  a  space  of  time  altogether 
too  short  for  the  credulity  of  modern  dyspeptics.  Then 
commenced  the  exciting  process  of  "  pulling  down  "  and 
"packing  up."  Bedsteads  were  knocked  endwise,  bed 
clothes  were  thrown  ah1  ways,  crockery  was  smashed,  and 
things  generally  were  put  where  there  was  no  possible 
danger  of  their  being  found  again  for  one  twelve-month. 
Deacon  Wilder  scolded,  his  wife  Sally  scolded,  old  Cato 
and  Dillah,  who  had  come  over  to  superintend  matters, 
scolded,  the  other  negroes  ran  against  each  other  and 
every  way,  literally  doing  nothing  except  "  'clarin'  they's 
fit  to  drap,  they's  so  tired,"  while  George,  the  deacon's 
oldest  son,  looked  on,  quietly  whistling  "  Yankee  Doodle." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  hubbub,  little  Charlie,  a  bright, 
beautiful,  but  delicate  boy  of  nine  summers,  crept  away 
to  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  there,  on  a  large  stone  un 
der  a  tall  sugar  maple,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  he 
wept  bitterly.  Poor  Charlie !  he  was  taking  his  first  les 
son  in  home-sickness,  even  before  his  childhood's  home 
had  disappeared  from  view.  He  had  always  been  opposed 
to  emigrating  to  Kentucky,  which,  in  his  mind,  was  all 
"dark,  dark  woods,"  where  each  member  of  the  family 
would  be  tomahawked  by  the  Indians  every  day,  at  least, 
if  not  oftener. 


278  GLEN'S  CEEEK. 

But  Charlie's  tears  were  unavailing, —  the  old  home, 
stead  was  sold,  the  preparations  were  nearly  completed, 
and  in  a  few  hours  he  would  bid  good-by  to  the  places  he 
loved  so  well.  "  I  shall  never  sit  under  this  tree  again,*' 
said  the  weeping  boy,  "never  again  play  in  the  dear  old 
brook ;  and  when  I  die  there,  I  shall  be  afraid  to  lie  alone 
in  the  dark  woods,  and  there  will  be  none  but  our  folks 
to  cry  for  me,  either." 

A  soft  footstep  sounded  near,  two  little  arms  were 
wound  round  Charlie's  neck,  and  a  childish  voice  whis 
pered,  "  Oh,  Charlie,  Charlie,  I  will  cry  when  I  hear  you 
are  dead,  and  if  you  will  send  for  me  before  you  die,  I 
will  surely  come." 

It  was  Ella,  his  cousin.  She  was  a  year  his  junior,  and 
since  his  earliest  remembrance  she  had  been  the  object  of 
his  deepest  affection.  Together  they  had  played  in  the 
forest  shade,  together  in  the  garden  had  they  made  their 
flower  beds,  and  together  had  they  mourned  over  torn 
dresses,  lost  mittens,  bumped  heads,  nettle  stings,  and  so 
forth.  It  is  not  altogether  improbable  that  Charlie's  grief 
arose  partly  from  the  fact  that  Ella  must  be  left  behind. 
He  had  always  been  delicate,  and  had  frequently  talked 
to  Ella  of  dying,  so  that  she  readily  believed  him  when  he 
told  her  he  should  die  in  Kentucky ;  she  believed,  too, 
that  she  should  see  him.  again  ere  he  died.  Did  she  be 
lieve  aright  ?  The  story  will  tell  you,  but  I  shall  not. 


CATO  AND   DILLAH.  279 

CHAPTER  III. 

CATO    AND    DILLAH. 

EVERYTHING  was  in  readiness  except  the  little  wagon 
tduch  was  to  convey  the  best  looking-glass,  the  stuffed 
rocking  chair,  Mrs.  Wilder,  and  Charlie.  On  an  old 
stump  near  the  gate  sat  Aunt  Dillah,  industriously  wiping 
the  tears  from  her  dusky  cheeks,  and  ever  and  anon  ex 
claiming,  "*'Pears  like  I  could  bar  it  better,  if  I  was  gwine 
with  them." 

This  remark  was  overheard  by  her  master,  Capt.  Wil 
der.  He  had  frequently  heard  Cato  express  the  same 
wish,  and  thought  it  quite  natural,  too,  inasmuch  as  Jake, 
their  only  child,  was  to  accompany  the  deacon.  For  a 
moment  the  captain  stood  irresolute.  We  will  not  say 
what  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind,  but  after  a  time 
he  turned  away  and  went  in  quest  of  his  brother.  There 
was  a  short  consultation,  and  then  Capt.  Wilder,  return 
ing  to  Dillah,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  said, 
"  Aunt  Diliah,  would  it  please  you  and  Cato  to  go  to  Ken 
tucky,  and  be  killed  by  the  Indians  along  with  Jake  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you,  marster,  that  it  would,"  said  Dillah. 
rolling  up  her  eyes  till  only  the  whites  were  visible. 

"  Very  well,  you  can  go,"  was  Capt.  Wilder's  reply. 

By  this  time  old  Cato  and  Jake  had  gathered  near,  and 
the  "  Lord  bless  you's"  which  they  poured  in  upon  the 
captain  sent  him  into  the  house,  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 
But  Dillah  had  no  time  to  lose.  Her  goods  and  chattels 
must  be  picked  up,  and  old  Cato's  Sunday  shirt  must  be 
wrung  out  of  the  rinsing  water,  Dillah  declaring,  "  she 
could  kind  o'shake  it  out  and  dry  it  on  the  road  !  "  While 
putting  up  her  things,  the  old  creature  frequently  lament* 


280  GLKN'S   CHEEK. 

ed  the  unfortunate  fact,  that  the  new  gown  given  her  last 
Christmas  by  "  old  Miss,"  was  not  made,  "  for,"  said  she, 
"  I  shall  want  to  look  toppin'  and  smart-like  amongst  the 
folks  in  Kentuck." 

"  Ain't  no  folks  thar,"  said  Jake  ;  but  as  often  as  he 
repeated  this  assertion,  Aunt  Dillah  answered,  "  Now  and 
then  one,  I  reckon,  'less  why  should  marster  tote  the 
whole  on  us  out  thar." 

"For  the  Injuns  to  eat,  I  s'pose,"  answered  Jake,  and 
then  he  went  through  with  a  short  rehearsal  of  what  his 
mother  would  say,  and  how  she  would  yell,  when  one  of 
the  natives  got  her  in  his  grip.  Little  Ella  wept  passion 
ately  when  she  learned  that  Dillah,  too,  was  going,  but 
when  Charlie,  stealing  up  to  her,  said,  "  she  will  take  care 
of  me,"  her  tears  were  dried,  arid  her  last  words  to  Dillah 
were,  "  Be  kind  to  Charlie  till  he  dies." 

Sweet  Ella,  it  would  seem  that  a  foreshadowing  of  the 
future  had  fallen  around  her,  for  when  at  last  Charlie's 
farewell  kiss  was  warm  upon  her  cheek,  her  voice  was 
cheerful,  as  she  said,  "  You  Avill  send  for  me  and  I  shall 
surely  come."  Could  she  have  known  how  long  and  weari 
some  were  the  miles,  how  dark  and  lonely  was  the  wood, 
and  how  full  of  danger  was  the  road  which  lay  between 
herself  and  Charlie's  future  home,  she  might  not  have  been 
BO  sure  that  they  would  meet  again. 

One  after  another  the  wagons  belonging  to  Deacon 
Wilder  passed  down  the  narrow  road,  and  were  lost  to 
view  in  the  deep  forest  which  stretched  away  to  the  west 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  Here  for  a  short  time  we 
will  leave  them,  while  we  introduce  to  our  readers  another 
family,  whose  fortunes  are  closely  interwo\en  with  ou? 
first  party. 


THE  GOETONS.  281 

• 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    GOKTONS. 

FIVE  years  prior  to  the  emigration  of  Deacon  Wilder, 
Mr.  Gorton,  a  former  neighbor,  had,  with  his  family,  re 
moved  to  Kentucky,  and  found  a  home  near  Lexington. 
Around  his  fireside  in  Virginia  once  had  gathered  three 
young  children,  Robert,  Madeline  and  Marian.  Robert, 
the  eldest,  was  not  Mr.  Gorton's  son,  but  the  child  of  a 
sister,  Mrs.  Hunting,  who  on  her  death-bed  had  bequeathed 
tier  only  boy  to  the  care  of  her  brother.  Madeline,  when 
three  years  of  age,  was  one  day  missed  from  her  father's 
house.  Long  and  protracted  search  was  made,  which  re 
sulted,  at  length,  in  the  discovery  of  a  part  of  the  child's 
dress  near  a  spot  where  lay  a  pool  of  blood,  and  the  mu 
tilated  remains  of  what  was  probably  once  the  merry, 
laughing  Madeline.  As  only  a  few  of  the  bones  and  a 
small  part  of  the  flesh  was  left,  it  was  readily  supposed 
that  the  wolves,  of  which  there  were  many  at  that  time 
in  the  woods,  had  done  the  bloody  deed.  Amid  many 
tears  the  remains  were  gathered  up,  placed  in  a  little  cof 
fin,  and  buried  beneath  the  aged  oak,  under  which  they 
were  found.  Years  passed  on,  and  the  lost  Madeline 
ceased  to  be  spoken  of  save  by  her  parents,  who  could 
never  forget. 

Marian,  the  youngest  and  now  the  only  remaining 
daughter  of  Mr.  Gorton,  was,  at  the  time  of  her  father's 
emigration,  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  was  a  fair,  hand 
eome  girl,  and  already  toward  her  George  Wilder,  who 
was  four  years  her  senior,  had  turned  his  eyes,  as  toward 
the  star  which  was  to  illuminate  his  future  horizon.  But 
she  went  from  him,  and  thenceforth  his  heart  yearned  for 


282  GLEN'S  CHEEK. 

the  woods  and  hills  of  Kentucky,  and  it  was  partly  through 
his  influence  that  his  father  had  finally  determined  to  re- 
move  thither.  Thus,  while  Charlie,  creeping  to  the  far 
end  of  the  wagon,  wept  as  he  thought  of  home  and  Ella, 
George  was  anticipating  a  joyous  meeting  with  the  beau 
tiful  Marian,  and  forming  plans  for  the  future,  just  as  thou 
sands  have  done  since  and  will  do  again. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE    NEW   HOME.     (/ 

IT  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  our  travelers  through 
the  various  stages  of  their  long,  tiresome  journey,  but  we 
will  with  them  hasten  on  to  the  close  of  a  mild  spring  af 
ternoon,  when  the  whole  company,  wearied  and  spiritless, 
drew  up  in  front  of  a  large,  newly  built  log  house,  in  the 
rear  of  which  were  three  smaller  ones.  These  last  were 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  negroes,  who  were  soon 
scattering  in  every  direction,  in  order  to  ascertain,  as  soon 
as  possible,  all  the  conveniences  and  inconveniences  of 
their  new  home.  It  took  Aunt  Dillah  but  a  short  time  to 
make  up  her  mind  that  "  Kentuck  was  an  ugly-looking, 
out-of-the-way  place,  the  whole  on't ;  that  she  wished  to 
gracious  she's  back  in  old  Yirginny ; "  and  lastly,  that 
"  she  never  should  have  come,  no  how,  if  marster  hadn't 
of  'sisted  and  'sistecl,  till*  'twasn't  in  natur  to  'fuse." 

This  assertion  Aunt  Dillah  repeated  so  frequently,  that 
she  at  length  came'  to  believe  it  herself.  The  old  creature 
had  no  idea  that  she  was  not  the  main  prop  of  her  mas 
ter's  household,  and  we  ourselves  are  inclined  to  think 


THE  NEW  HOME.  285 

that  Mrs.  Wilder,  unaided  by  Dillah's  strong  arm,  ready 
tact,  and  encouraging  words,  could  not  well  have  borne 
the  hardships  and  privations  attending  that  home  in  the 
wilderness.  Weary  and  heart-sick,  she  stepped  from  the 
little  wagon,  while  an  expression  of  sadness  passed  over 
her  face  as  her  eye  wandered  over  the  surrounding  coun 
try,  where  tract  after  tract  of  thick  woodland  stretched 
on  and  still  onward,  to  the  verge  of  the  most  distant 
horizon. 

Dillah,  better  than  any  one  else,  understood  how  to 
cheer  her  mistress,  and  within  an  hour  after  their  arrival, 
a  crackling  fire  was  blazing  in  the  fire-place,  while  the  old 
round  iron  tea-kettle,  or  rather  its  contents,  were  hissing 
and  moaning,  and  telling,  as  plainly  as  tea-kettle  could  tell, 
of  coming  good  cheer.  At  length  the  venison  steaks  and 
Dillah's  short-cake,  smoking  hot,  were  placed  upon  the 
old  square  table,  and  the  group  which  shared  that  first 
supper  at  Glen's  Creek,  were,  with  the  exception  of  Charlie, 
comparatively  contented.  He,  poor  child,  missed  the 
scenes  of  his  early  home,  and  more  than  all,  he  missed  his 
playmate,  Ella. 

Long  after  the  hour  of  midnight  went  by,  he  stood  by 
his  little  low  window  near  the  head  of  his  bed,  gazing  up 
at  the  hosts  of  shining  stars,  and  wondering  if  they  were 
looking  upon  his  dear  old  home,  even  as  they  looked  down 
upon  him,  homesick  and  lonely,  afar  in  the  wilderness  of 
Kentucky. 


284  GLEN'S   CEEEK. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

OKIANNA. 

WEEKS  passed  on,  and  within  and  without  Deacon 
Wilder's  door  were  signs  of  life  and  civilization.  Trees 
were  cut  down,  gardens  were  made,  corn  and  vegetables 
were  planted,  and  still  no  trace  of  an  Indian  had  been 
seen,  although  Jake  had  frequently  expressed  a  wish  to 
get  a  shot  at  the  "  varmin,"  as  he  called  them.  Still,  he 
felt  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  be  caught  out  alone  at  any 
very  great  distance  from  his  master's  dwelling. 

This  feeling  was  shared  by  all  of  Deacon  Wilder's  house 
hold,  except  Charlie,  who  frequently  went  forth  alone  into 
the  forest  shade,  and  rambled  over  the  hills  where  grew 
the  rich  wild  strawberry  and  the  fair  summer  flowers,  and 
where,  too,  roamed  the  red  man ;  for  the  Indian  was  there, 
jealously  watching  each  movement  of  his  white  brother, 
and  waiting  for  some  provocation  to  strike  a  deadly  blow. 
But  Charlie  knew  it  not,  and  fearlessly  each  day  he  plunged 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  depths  of  the  woods,  taking 
some  stately  tree  or  blighted  stump  as  a  way-mark  by 
which  to  trace  his  homeward  road,  when  the  shadows  be 
gan  to  grow  long  and  dark. 

Although  he  knew  it  not,  Charlie  had  a  protector,  who 
each  day,  in  the  shady  woods  and  wild  gullies  of  Glen'b 
Creek,  awaited  his  coming.  Stealthily  would  she  follow 
his  footsteps,  and  when  on  the  velvety  turf  he  laid  him 
down  to  rest,  she  would  watch  near  him,  lest  harm  should 
befall  the  young  sleeper.  It  was  Orianna,  the  only  and 
darling  child  of  Owanno,  the  chieftain  whose  wigwam  was 
three  miles  west  of  Glen's  Creek,  near  a  spot  called  Grassy 
Spring. 


OEIANNA.  285 

Onanna  had  first  been  attracted  toward  Charlie  by  see 
ing  him  weep,  one  day,  and  from  a  few  words  which  he 
involuntarily  let  fall,  she  learned  that  his  heart  was  not 
with  the  scenes  wherein  he  dwelt,  but  was  far  away  to 
ward  the  "  rising  sun."  Orianna's  heart  was  full  of  kindly 
sympathy,  and  from  the  time  when  she  first  saw  Charlie 
weeping  in  the  forest,  she  made  a  vow  to  the  Great  Spirit 
that  she  would  love  and  protect  the  child  of  the  "  pale 
face."  The  vow  thus  made  by  the  simple  Indian  maiden 
was  never  broken,  but  through  weal  and  woe  it  was  faith 
fully  kept. 

It  was  a  long  time  ere  Orianna  ventured  to  introduce 
herself  to  her  new  friend ;  but  when  she  did  so,  she  was 
delighted  to  find  that  he  neither  expressed  fear  of  her, 
nor  surprise  at  her  personal  appearance.  From  that  time 
they  were  inseparable,  although  Orianna  exacted  from 
Charlie  a  promise  not  to  mention  her  at  home,  and  also 
resisted  his  entreaties  that  she  would  accompany  him 
thither.  In  reply  to  all  his  arguments,  she  would  say, 
mournfully,  "  No,  Charlie,  no,  the  pale-face  is  the  enemy 
of  my  people,  although  Orianna  never  can  think  they  are 
enemies  to  her  ;  and  sometimes  I  have  wished, —  it  was 
wicked  I  know,  and  the  Great  Spirit  was  angry, —  but  I 
have  wished  that  I,  too,  was  of  the  fair-haired  and  white- 
browed  ones." 

In  Charlie's  home  there  was  much  wonder  as  to  what 
took  him  so  regularly  to  the  woods,  but  he  withstood  their 
questioning  and  kept  his  secret  safely.  In  the  wigwam, 
too,  where  Orianna  dwelt,  there  was  some  grumbling  at 
her  >  frequent  absences,  but  the  old  chieftain  Owanno  and 
his  wife  IsTarretta  loved  their  child  too  well  to  prohibit 
her  rambling  when  and  where  she  pleased.  This  old 
couple  were  far  on  the  journey  of  life,  when  Orianna  came 
a?  a  sunbeam  of  gladness  to  their  lone  cabin,  and  thence- 


286  GLEN'S   CHEEK. 

forth  they  doted  upon  her  as  the  miser  doats  upon  his 
shining  gold. 

She  was  a  tall,  graceful  creature  of  nineteen  or  twenty 
summers,  and  her  life  would  have  been  one  of  unbounded 
happiness,  had  it  not  been  for  one  circumstance.  Near 
her  father's  wigwam  lived  the  young  chief  Wahlaga,  who, 
to  a  most  ferocious  nature,  added  a  face  horridly  disfig 
ured  by  the  many  fights  in  which  he  had  been  foremost. 
A  part  of  his  nose  was  gone,  and  one  eye  entirely  so ;  yet 
to  this  man  had  Owanno  determined  to  wed  his  beautiful 
daughter,  who  looked  upon  Wahlaga  with  perfect  disgust, 
and  resolved,  that  sooner  than  marry  him,  she  would  per 
ish  in  the  deep  waters  of  the  Kentucky,  which  lay  not 
many  miles  away. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MAKI  AN. 

THE  deacon  and  his  family  had  now  been  residents  at 
Glen's  Creek  nearly  three  months.  Already  was  the  leafy- 
month  of  June  verging  into  sultry  July,  when  George 
Wilder  at  length  found  time  to  carry  out  a  plan  long  be 
fore  formed.  It  was  to  visit  Marian,  and  if  he  found  her 
all  which  as  a  child  she  had  promised  to  be,  he  would  win 
her  for  himself. 

Soor  after  the  early  sun  had  touched  the  hill  tops  as 
with  a  blaze  of  fire,  George  mounted  his  favorite  steed, 
and  taking  Jake  with  him  for  a  companion,  turned  into 
the  woods  and  took  the  lonely  road  to  Lexington.  Leav- 


MAKIAN.  287 

uu£  them  for  a  moment,  we  will  press  on  and  see  Marian's 
home. 

It  was  a  large,  double  log  building,  over  which  the 
flowering  honeysuckle  and  dark  green  hop- vine  had  been 
trained  until  they  formed  an  effectual  screen.  The  yard 
in  front  was  large,  and  much  taste  had  been  displayed  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  flowers  and  shrubs  which  were 
scattered  through  it.  Several  large  forest  trees  had  been 
left  standing,  and  at  one  end  of  the  yard,  under  a  clump 
of  honey-locusts,  a  limpid  stream  of  water,  now  nearly  dry, 
went  dancing  over  the  large  flat  limestones  which  lay  at 
the  bottom.  In  the  rear  of  the  house  was  the  garden, 
which  was  very  large,  and  contained  several  bordered 
walks,  grassy  plats,  and  handsome  flower-beds,  besides  ve 
getables  of  all  descriptions.  At  the  end  of  the  garden,  and 
under  the  shadows  of  the  woods,  was  a  little  summer- 
house,  over  which  a  wild  grape-vine  had  been  taught  to 
twine  its  tendrils. 

In  this  summer-house,  on  the  morning  of  which  we  are 
speaking,  was  a  beautiful  young  girl,  Marian  Gorton.  We 
nave  not  described  her,  neither  do  we  intend  to,  for  she 
was  not  as  beautiful  as  heroines  of  stories  usually  are ; 
but,  reader,  we  will  venture  that  she  was  as  handsome  as 
any  person  you  have  ever  seen,  for  people  were  handsomer 
in  those  days  than  they  are  now, —  at  least  our  grand-pa 
rents  tell  us  so.  Neither  have  we  told  her  age,  although 
we  are  sure  that  we  have  somewhere  said  enough  on  that 
point  to  have  you  know,  by  a  little  calculation,  that  Marian 
was  now  eighteen. 

This  morning,  as  she  sits  in  the  summer-house,  her  brow 
is  resting  on  her  hand,  and  a  shadow  is  resting  on  her 
brow.  Had  Marian  cause  for  sorrow?  None,  except 
that  her  cousin  Robert,  who  had  recently  returned  from 
England,  had  that  morning  offered  her  his  hand  and  been 


288  GLEN'S  CKEEK. 

partially  refused.  Yet  why  should  Marian  refuse  him, 
whom  many  a  proud  lady  in  the  courtly  halls  of  England 
would  not  refuse  ?  Did  she  remember  one  who,  years 
ago,  in  the  green  old  woods  of  Virginia,  awakened  within 
her  childish  heart  a  feeling,  which,  though  it  might  have 
slumbered  since,  was  still  there  in  all  its  freshness  ?  Yes, 
she  did  remember  him,  although  she  struggled  hard  to 
sonquer  each  feeling  that  was  interwoven  with  a  thought 
of  him.  Nearly  three  months  he  had  been  within  twenty 
miles  of  her,  and  yet  no  word  or  message  had  been  re 
ceived,  and  Marian's  heart  swelled  with  resentment  to 
ward  the  young  man,  whose  fleet  steed  even  then  could 
scarce  keep  pace  with  his  master's  eager  wishes  to  press 
onward. 

From  her  earliest  childhood  she  had  looked  upon  Rob 
ert  as  a  brother,  and  now  that  he  was  offered  as  a  hus 
band,  her  heart  rebelled,  although  pride  occasionally 
whispered,  "  Do  it, — marry  him, — then  see  what  George 
Wilder  will  say ;  "  but  Marian  had  too  much  good  sense 
long  to  listen  to  the  promptings  of  pride,  and  the  shadow 
on  her  face  is  occasioned  by  a  fear  that  she  had  remem 
bered  so  long  and  so  faithfully  only  to  find  herself  un- 
cared  for  and  forgotten. 

Meantime,  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  near  her  father's 
house  had  brought  to  the  fence  half  a  dozen  negroes  and 
half  as  many  dogs,  all  ready  in  their  own  way  to  welcome 
the  new  comers.  After  giving  his  horse  in  charge  of  the 
uegroes,  George  proceeded  to  the  house,  where  he 
was  cordially  received  by  Mrs.  Gorton,  who  could  scarce 
ly  recognize  the  school-boy  George,  in  the  tall,  fine  look 
ing  young  man  before  her.  Almost  his  first  inquiry  wag 
tor  Marian.  Mrs.  Gorton  did  not  know  where  she  was, 
but  old  Sukey,  who  had  known  George  in  Virginia,  now 
hobbled  in,  and  after  a  few  tears,  and  a  great  many 


MARIAN.  289 

"  Lor'  bless  you's,"  and  inquiries  about  "  old  Virginny," 
she  managed  to  tell  him  that  Marian  was  in  the  garden, 
and  that  she  would  call  her ;  but  George  prevented  her, 
saying  he  would  go  himself. 

Most  of  my  readers  have  doubtless  either  witnessed  or 
experienced  meetings  similar  to  that  which  took  place  be-" 
tween  George  and  Marian,  so  I  shan  not  describe  it,  but 
shall  leave  it  for  the  imagination,  which  will  probably  do 
it  bettor  justice  than  can  my  pen,  which  conies  very  near 
the  point  of  being  used  up.  We  will  only  say,  that  when 
at  twelve  o'clock  Mr.  Gorton  and  Robert  returned  from 
a  ride,  George  and  Marian  were  still  in  the  summer-house, 
unmindful  of  the  sun  which  looked  in  upon  them  as  if  to 
tell  them  of  his  onward  course.  But  then,  the  question 
that  morning  asked  and  answered,  was  of  great  impor 
tance,  so  'twas  no  wonder  that  they  were  alike  deaf  and 
Blind  to  the  little  darkies,  who  on  tip-toe  crept  behind 
the  summer-house,  eager  to  know  "  what  the  strange  gen 
tleman  could  be  saying  to  Miss  Marian,  which  made  her 
look  so  speckled  and  roasted  like."  These  same  hope 
fuls,  when  at  dinner  time  they  were  sent  for  their  young 
mistress,  commenced  a  general  hunt,  which  finally  termi 
nated  in  the  popping  of  their  woolly  heads  into  the  sum 
mer-house  door,  exclaiming  between  breaths,  "  Oh,  Miss 
Marian,  here  you  is.  We  've  looked  for  you  every  whar ! 
Come  to  your  dinner."  On  their  way  to  the  house  they 
encountered  old  Sukey,  who  called  out,  "Ho,  Mas'  George, 
^'specs  mebby  you  found  Miss  Marry-'em,"  at  the  same 
dine  shaking  her  sides  at  her  own  wit. 

Mr.  Gorton  received  his  young  friend  with  great  cor 
diality,  but  there  was  a  cool  haughtiness  in  the  reception 
which  Robert  at  first  gave  his  old  playmate.  He  suspected 
the  nature  of  George's  visit,  nor  did  Marian's  bright,  joy 
ous  face  tend  in  the  least  to  allay  his  suspicions.  But  not 
19 


1590  GLEN'S   CREEK. 

long  could  he  cherish  feelings  of  resentment  toward 
one  whom  he  liked  so  well  as  he  had  George  Wilder.  In 
the  course  of  an  hour  his  reserve  wore  off,  and  unless 
George  should  chance  to  see  this  story, — which  is  doubt 
ful, — he  will  probably  never  know  how  bitter  were  the 
feelings  which  his  presence  for  a  few  moments  stirred  in 
the  heart  of  Robert  Hunting.  Before  George  returned 
home,  he  asked  Marian  of  her  father,  and  also  won  from 
her  a  promise  that,  ere  the  frosts  of  winter  came,  her 
home  should  be  with  him,  and  by  his  own  fireside 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
EGBERT   A:NT> 


THERE  was  much  talk  and  excitement  in  Deacon  Wil- 
der's  family,  when  it  was  known  that  in  a  little  more  than 
three  months'  time  a  young  maiden  would  come  among 
itl^em,  who  would  be  at  once  daughter,  sister  and  mistress. 
From  Jake,  the  negroes  had  received  most  of  their  infor 
mation,  and  verily  George  himself  would  scarcely  have 
recognized  Marian  in  the  description  given  of  her  by  his 
servant.  So  many  beauties  and  excellences  were  attrib 
uted  to  her,  that  the  negroes  were  all  on  the  qui  vive  to 
see  this  paragon. 

Charlie,  too,  was  delighted,  and  when  next  day  he  as 
•usual  met  Orianna  in  the  woods,  he  led  her  to  a  mossy 
>»ank,  and  then  communicated  to  her  the  glad  tidings. 
Wlien  he  repeated  to  her  the  name  of  his  future  sister- 
<i-law,  he  was  greatly  surprised  at  seeing  Orianna  etart 
.jirickly  to  her  feet,  while  a  wild  light  flashed  from  her 


EOBEKT   AND    OKI  ANNA. 

large  black  eye.  Soon  reseating  himself,  she  said,  calmly, 
"  What  is  it,  Charlie  ?  "  What  is  the  name  of  the  white 
lady  ?  " 

"Marian, — Marian  Gorton,"  repeated  Charlie.  "Do 
you  not  think  it  a  pretty  name  ?  " 

Orianna  did  not  answer,  but  sat  with  her  small,  delicate 
hands  pressed  tightly  over  her  forehead.  For  a  moment 
Charlie  looked  at  her  in  wonder ;  then  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his,  he  said,  gently,  "  Don't  feel  so,  Orianna.  I 
shall  love  you  just  as  well,  even  if  I  do  have  a  sister 
Marian." 

Orianna's  only  answer  was,  "  Say  her  name  again, 
Charlie." 

He  did  so,  and  then  Orianna  repeated,  "  Marian, — Ma 
rian, — what  is  it  ?  Oh,  what  is  it  ?  Marian ; — it  sounds 
to  Orianna  like  music  heard  years  and  years  ago." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  a  dream,"  suggested  Charlie. 

"  It  must  have  been,"  answered  Orianna,  "  bnt  a  pleas 
ant  dream,  fair  as  the  young  moon  or  the  summer  flow 
ers.  But  tell  me  more,  Charlie." 

"  I  will  do  so,"  said  he,  "but  I  am  afraid  you  will  for 
get  your  lesson." 

He  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  to  the  woods  some 
one  of  his  reading  books,  and  in  this  way  he  had  uncon 
sciously  awakened  in  Orianna  a  desire  for  learning.  For 
some  time  past  a  part  of  each  day  had  been  spent  in 
teaching  her  the  alphabet.  It  was  an  interesting  sight, 
that  dark,  handsome  girl,  and  the  fair,  pale  boy, — he  in 
the  capacity  of  a  patient  teacher,  and  she  the  ambitious 
scholar. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
they  weie,  as  usual,  employed  in  their  daily  occupation. 
The  excitement  of  the  occasion  heightened  the  rich  glow 
on  Orianna's  cheek,  while  the  wreath  of  white  wild  flow 


292  GLEN'S  CREEK. 

erg,  which  Charlie  had  woven  and  placed  among  her  shi 
ning  black  hair,  gave  her  the  appearance  of  some  dark 
queen  of  the  forest.  The  lesson  was  nearly  completed, 
and  Charlie  was  overjoyed  to  find  that  his  pupil  knew  ev 
ery  letter,  both  great  and  small,  when  they  were  startled 
by  the  sound  of  a  footstep,  and  in  a  moment  Robert 
Hunting,  who  had  accompanied  George  Wilder  home 
from  Lexington,  stood  before  them. 

Swiftly  as  a  deer  Orianna  bounded  away,  while  Charlie, 
in  evident  confusion,  attempted  to  secrete  his  book,  and 
Robert  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  saying,  "Well  done, 
Charlie !  So  you  »ve  turned  schoolmaster,  and  chosen  a 
novel  pupil,  upon  my  word.  But  who  is  she  ?  If  she 
be  a  native,  she  is  handsomer  far  than  half  the  white 
girls ! " 

"  She  is  Orianna,"  said  Charlie,  "  the  daughter  of  a 
chieftain,  and  I  love  her,  too. 

"Nobility,  hey?"  said  Robert  laughing.  "Better 
yet.  But  what  made  her  run  so  ?  Did  she  think  I  was 
the  evil  one  ?  Can't  you  call  her  back  ?  " 

"  She  won't  come,"  answered  Charlie,  "  she  don't  like 
you,  and  I  can't  make  her." 

"  So  you  have  been  saying  a  word  in  my  favor,  have 
you?"  said  Robert,  a  little  sarcastically.  "Greatly 
obliged  to  you,  Master  Charlie.  But  I  prefer  doing  my 
own  pleading." 

"  I  didn't  mean  you?  said  Charlie,  a  little  indignantly. 
"  She  don't  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  you.  I 
meant  all  the  white  folks:" 

"  Oh,  you  did,"  answered  Robert,  looking  wistfully  in 
the  direction  where  Orianna  had  disappeared. 

At  that  moment  there  was  the  report  of  a  rifle,  and  a 
ball  passed  between  him  and  Charlie  and  lodged  in  a  tree 
a  few  feet  distant. 


ROBERT  AND  OKI  ANNA.  293 

"  Soho,"  exclaimed  Robert,  "  was  n't  content  with 
sending  an  arrow  at  my  heart,  but  must  hurl  a  bullet  at 
my  head." 

Charlie  was  confounded.  He  never  for  a  moment 
doubted  that  Orianna  had  sent  the  ball,  and  a  fearful  dis 
trust  of  her  filled  his  heart.  A  week  went  by,  and  still 
he  neglected  to  take  his  accustomed  walk,  although  he 
noticed  that  Robert  went  daily  in  his  stead. 

At  length  one  morning  Robert  came  to  him  and  said, 
"  Orianna  bade  me  tell  you  that  each  day,  'neath  the 
buckeye  tree,  she's  watched  for  you  in  vain." 

Charlie's  eyes  opened  wide  with  astonishment,  as  he 
exclaimed,  "  Orianna  ?  Where  have  you  seen  Orianna  ?  " 

"  Where  should  I  see  her,  pray,  but  in  the  woods  ?  " 
answered  Robert.  "  We  have  spent  the  last  five  days 
together,  there,  and  I  have  taken  your  place  as  teacher." 

Here  we  may  as  well  explain  what  the  reader  is  doubt 
less  anxious  to  know.  The  bullet  which  passed  between 
Robert  and  Charlie  was  not  sent  by  the  hand  of  Orianna, 
but  by  the  vicious  Wahlaga,  whose  curiosity  had  been 
roused  as  to  what  led  Orianna  so  frequently  to  the  woods. 
On  that  day  he  had  followed  and  discovered  her,  just  at 
the  moment  when  Robert  appeared  before  her.  The 
jealous  savage,  thinking  that  he  looked  upon  his  rival, 
made  ready  his  gun,  when  Orianna,  suddenly  coming 
upon  him,  threw  aside  his  arm,  thus  changing  the  course 
of  the  ball,  while  at  the  same  time,  she  led  the  excited 
Indian  away,  and  at  length  succeeded  in  convincing  him 
that  never  before  had  she  seen  Robert,  nor  did  she  even 
know  who  he  was. 

The  next  morning  Orianna  was  overjoyed  to  learn  that 
Wahlaga  was  about  leaving  home,  to  be  absent  an  indefi 
nite  length  of  time.  Her  happiness,  however,  was  soon 
clouded  by  some  expressions  which  he  let  fall,  and  from 


294  GLEN'S  CREEK. 

which  she  gathered  that  her  father  had  promised  to  give, 
her  in  marriage  as  soon  as  he  should  return.  "  It  shall 
never  be ;  no,  never,"  said  the  determined  girl,  as,  im 
mediately  after  his  departure,  she  took  the  narrow  foot 
path  to  the  woods  of  Glen's  Creek. 

Throughout  all  the  morning  she  waited  in  vain  for  Char 
lie,  although  she  several  tunes  saw  Robert  at  a  distance, 
and  felt  sure  that  he  was  looking  for  her.  She  knew  that 
she  had  saved  his  life,  and  this  created  in  her  a  desire  to 
see  him  again.  Accordingly,  when  that  afternoon  they 
once  more  came  suddenly  face  to  face,  she  did  not  run, 
but  eagerly  asked  after  her  young  companion.  Robert 
knew  well  how  to  play  his  part,  and  in  a  few  moments 
Orianna's  shyness  had  vanished,  and  she  was  answering, 
with  ready  obedience,  all  the  questions  asked  her  by  the 
handsome  stranger.  Ere  they  parted,  Robert  had  learned 
that  to  her  he  owed  his  life,  and  as  a  token  of  his  grati 
tude  he  placed  upon  her  slender  finger  a  plain  gold  ring. 
He  did  not  ask  her  to  meet  him  again,  next  day,  but  he 
well  knew  she  would,  for  she,  who  knew  no  evil,  thought 
no  evil. 

As  Robert  had  said,  he  took  Charlie's  place  as  teacher; 
but,  ah  me !  the  lessons  thus  taught  and  received  were ' 
of  a  far  different  nature  from  the  alphabet  in  Charlie's 
picture-book.  Many  a  time,  ere  that  week  went  by,  the 
simple  Indian  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  night,  knelt  by  the 
streamlet  which  ran  by  her  father's  door,  and  prayed  the 
Great  Spirit  to  forgive  her  for  the  love  which  she  bore 
the  white  man,  the  enemy  of  her  people ; — and  he  ? — why 
he  scarce  knew  himself  what  his  thoughts  and  intentions 
were.  He  looked  upon  Orianna  as  a  simple-minded,  in 
nocent  child ;  and  while  he  took  peculiar  delight  in  study- 
iii"-  her  character,  he  resolved  that  neither  in  word  no; 


EGBERT  AND  OKIANNA.  295 

deed  would  he  harm  the  gentle  girl  who  each  day  eamo 
so  timidly  to  his  side. 

Day  after  day  was  his  stay  at  Glen's  Creek  protracted, 
and  yet  he  would  not  acknowledge  that  he  was  even 
interested  in  her  within  whose  heart  a  passion  had 
been  awakened,  never  more  to  slumber.  The  day  on 
which  he  spoke  to  Charlie  of  Orianna,  was  the  last  which 
he  would  spend  at  Glen's  Creek,  and  as  he  did  not  wish 
to  be  alone  when  he  bade  her  adieu,  he  asked  Charlie  to 
accompany  him.  Oh,  how  bright  was  the  smile  with 
which  the  maiden  greeted  them  at  first,  and  how  full  of 
despair  was  the  expression  of  her  face  when  told  by  Rob 
ert  that  he  must  leave  her.  N"ot  a  word  did  she  speak, 
but  closely  to  her  heart  she  pressed  the  little  Charlie,  as 
if  fearful  lest  he,  too,  should  go. 

"  Farewell,  Orianna,"  said  Robert.  "  When  the  nuts 
are  brown  upon  the  trees,  look  for  me,  for  I  shall  come 
again." 

A  moment  more,  and  he  was  gone, — gone  with  poor 
Orianna's  heart,  and  left  her  nothing  in  return.  Covering 
her  face  with  her  ha^ids,  she  wept  so  long  and  bitterly, 
that  Charlie  at  last  wound  his  arms  around  her  neck,  and 
wept,  too,  although  he  knew  not  for  what.  This  toker 
of  sympathy  aroused  her,  and  after  a  moment  she  said, 
"Leave  me  now,  Charlie;  Orianna  would  be  alone." 
He  arose  to  obey,  when  she  added,  "  Don't  tell  them, — 
don't  tell  him  what  you  have  seen." 

He  promised  secrecy,  and  Orianna  was  left  alone.  The 
forest  was  dark  with  the  shadows  of  coming  night  ere 
Bhe  arose,  and  then  the  heart  which  she  bore  back  to  the 
wigwam  by  Grassy  Spring  was  sadder  than  any  she  had 
ever  before  carried  across  the  threshold  of  her  home, 
The  next  day  Charlie  noticed  a  certain  listlessness  about 
his  pupil,  which  he  had  never  observed  before;  and 


296  GLEN'S  CREEK. 

though  her  eye  wandered  over  the  printed  page,  hei 
thoughts  were  evidently  away.  At  last  a  happy  thought 
struck  him,  and  drawing  closely  to  her,  he  whispered,  "  I 
think  Robert  will  be  pleased  if  you  learn  to  read." 

He  had  touched  the  right  chord, — no  other  incentive 
was  needed, — and  from  that  day  her  improvement  was  as> 
rapid  as  the  most  ambitious  teacher  could  wish.  Fre 
quently  she  would  ask  Charlie  concerning  Marian,  re 
questing  him  to  repeat  her  name ;  then  she  would  fall  into 
a  fit  of  musing,  saying,  "  When  heard  I  that  name  ?  and 
where  was  it  ?  —  oh,  where  ?  " 

Yes,  Orianna,  Where  was  it  ¥ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   BRIDAL. 

SWIFTLY  and  on  noiseless  wing  sped  on  old  father  Time, 
and  they  who  thought  the  summer  would  never  pass, 
were  surprised  when  o'er  the  wooded  hills  the  breath  of 
autumn  came,  bearing  the  yellow  leaf — the  first  white 
hair  in  nature's  sunny  locks.  The  golden  harvests  were 
gathered  in,  and  through  the  forest  "  the  sound  of  drop 
ping  nuts  was  heard,"  showing  that 

"The  melancholy  days  had  com«, 
The  saddest  of  the  year." 

It  was  the  last  day  of  October,  and  over  the  fading 
earth  the  autumnal  sun  was  shedding  its  rays  as  brightly 
as  in  the  early  summer.  The  long  shadows,  stretching 
far  to  the  eastward,  betokened  the  approach  of  night,  and 


THE  BillDAL.  297 

vrhen  at  last  the  sun  sank  to  its  western  home,  the  full 
moon  poured  a  flood  of  soft,  pale  light  over  the  scene, 
and  looking  in  at  a  half  opened  window,  shone  upon  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  who,  with  the  love-light  in  her  dark 
blue  eye,  and  woman's  holy  trust  in  her  heart,  was  listen 
ing,  or  seeming  to  listen,  while  the  words  were  said 
which  made  her  the  wife  of  George  Wilder. 

Scarce  was  the  ceremony  completed,  when  the  light 
from  the  window  was  obscured,  a  shadow  fell  darkly  upon 
Robert,  and  a  voice,  clear  and  musical,  uttered  words 
which  curdled  the  blood  of  the  fair  bride,  and  made  more 
than  one  heart  stand  still  with  fear.  They  were,  '•'•The 
Indians,  the  Indians  ! — they  are  coming  in  less  than  an 
hour ! " 

The  next  moment  a  tall  and  graceful  figure  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  and  laying  its  hand  on  Robert's  shoulder, 
exclaimed,  "  It  is  your  life  they  seek,  but  Orianna  will 
save  you ! " 

Then  away  glided  the  maiden,  so  noiselessly  that  but 
for  the  tidings  she  brought,  the  party  would  almost  have 
doubted  that  she  had  been  there.  For  a  time  the  com 
pany  were  mute  with  surprise,  and  involuntarily  George 
clasped  closely  to  his  side  his  Marian,  as  if  to  shield  her 
from  the  coming  danger.  At  length,  Mr.  Gorton  asked 
Robert  for  an  explanation  of  what  the  stranger  had  said. 

Robert  re'plied,  "Two  days  since,  I  was  hunting  in  the 
woods  not  far  from  the  house,  when  a  rustling,  noise  be 
hind  some  bushes  attracted  my  attention.  Without  stop 
ping  to  think,  I  leveled  my  gun  and  fired,  when  behold ! 
tip  sprang  an  Indian  girl,  and  bounded  away  so  swiftly 
that  to  overtake  her  and  apologize  was  impossible.  This 
I  suppose  to  be  the  reason  why  my  life  is  sought." 

lib  supposition  was  correct,  and  for  the  benefit  of  the 
reader  we  will  explain  how  Orianna  became  possessed  oi 


298  GLEN'S  CKEEK. 

the  secret.  The  night  before,  when  returning  to  her  fa 
ther's  wigwam,  she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  many 
voices  within.  Curiosity  prompted  her  to  listen,  and  she 
thus  learned  that  the  Indians  who  lived  east  of  Lexington 
had  been  insulted  by  a  Avhite  man,  who  had  fired  at  one 
of  their  squaws.  From  the  description  of  the  aggressor, 
she  knew  it  to  be  Robert,  and  with  fast  beating  heart  she 
listened  to  the  plan  of  attacking  Mr.  Gorton's  dwelling 
on  the  night  of  the  wedding. 

Ovranno  heard  them  to  the  end,  and  then,  to  Orianna's 
great  delight,  he  refused  to  join  them,  saying  he  was  now 
too  old  to  contend  with  the  pale-face,  unless  himself  or 
family  were  molested.  The  old  chief  would  not  acknowl 
edge  how  much  this  decision  was  owing  to  the  influence 
of  bis  gentle  daughter.  He  knew  she  liked  the  whites, 
and  he  knew,  too,  another  thing, — but  'tis  not  time  for 
that  yet. 

Oiianna  had  now  something  to  do.  A  life  dearer  far 
than  her  own  was  to  be  saved,  and  Marian,  too, — whose 
very  name  had  a  power  to  thrill  each  nerve  of  that  noble 
Indian  girl, — she  was  in  danger. 

The  next  day  Charlie  waited  in  vain  for  his  pupil,  for 
she  was  away  on  her  mission  of  love,  and  the  stern 
features  of  many  an  Indian  relaxed  as  he  welcomed  to 
his  cabin  the  chieftain's  daughter.  Ere  the  sun  set  she 
fully  understood  their  plan  of  attack,  and  then,  unmind 
ful  of  the  twenty-five  miles  traversed  since  the  dawn  of 
day,  she  hied  her  back  to  Lexington,  to  raise  its  inhab 
itants,  and  as  we  have  seen,  to  apprise  the  bridal  party 
of  their  danger. 

Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost,  and  while  they  were  con 
sulting  as  to  their  best  means  of  safety,  the  Indian  girl 
again  stood  among  them,  saying,  "  Let  me  advise  you. 
It  is  not  the  town  they  wish  to  attack, — they  will  hardly 


TUE  BKIDAL.  299 

do  that, — it  is  this  house, — it  is  you,"  laying  her  hand 
convulsively  on  Robert's  arm.  "  But  there  is  yet  time  to 
escape;  flee  to  the  town,  and  leave  me  here — " 

"  To  be  killed !  "  said  Robert. 

"  To  be  killed !  "  she  repeated,  scornfully.  "  In  all 
Kentucky  there  lives  not  the  red  man  who  dares  touch  a 
hair  of  Orianna's  head." 

Her  proposition  seemed  feasible  enough,  and  after  a  lit 
tle  hesitation  it  "was  resolved  to  adopt  it.  The  negroes 
had  already  done  so,  for  at  the  first  alarm  they  had  taken 
to  their  heels,  and  were  by  this  time  half  way  to  Lexing 
ton.  Thither  the  whites,  with  the  exception  of  Robert, 
soon  followed.  He  resolutely  refused  to  go,  saying,  ip 
answer  to  his  friends'  entreaties,  "  No,  never  will  I  de 
sert  a  helpless  female.  You  remove  the  ladies  to  a  place 
of  safety,  and  then  with  others  return  to  my  aid." 

So  they  were  left  alone,  the  white  man  and  the  Indian. 
Together,  side  by  side,  they  watched  the  coming  of  the 
foe.  At  Orianna's  direction  the  doors  had  been  barri 
caded,  while  the  lights  were  left  burning  in  order  to 
deceive  the  Indians  into  a  belief  that  the  inmates  still 
were  there.  A  half  hour  went  by,  and  then,  in  tones 
which  sent  the  blood  in  icy  streams  through  Robert's 
veins,  Orianna  whispered,  "  They  come !  Do  you  see 
them?  Look!" 

He  did  look,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon  he  dis 
cerned  the  outlines  of  many  dusky  forms,  moving  stealth 
ily  through  the  woods  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  The 
garden  fence  was  passed,  and  then  onward,  slowly  but 
surely,  they  came.  So  intent  was  Robert  in  watching 
their  movements,  that  he  noted  not  the  band  of  armed 
men  wrho,  in  an  opposite  direction,  were  advancing  to  the 
rescue ;  neither  did  he  observe  in  time  to  prevent  it  the 
lightning  spring  with  which  Orianna  bounded  through 


300  GLEN'S  CItEEK. 

the  window,  and  went  forth  to  meet  the  enemy,  who, 
mistaking  her  for  some  one  else,  uttered  a  yell  of  savage 
exultation  and  pressed  on  more  fiercely.  Loud  and  deaf 
ening  was  the  war-cry  which  echoed  through  the  woods, 
and  louder  still  was  the  shout  of  defiance  which  rent  the 
air,  as  the  whites  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  as 
tonished  Indians. 

It  was  Orianna's  intention,  when  she  leaped  from  the 
window,  to  reach  the  leader  of  the  savages,  and  by  tell 
ing  him  the  truth  of  the  matter  as  she  had  heard  it  from 
Robert,  she  hoped  to  dissuade  him  from  his  murderous 
design.  But  her  interference  was  not  needed,  for  the 
savages  were  surprised  and  intimidated  by  the  unexpected 
resistance,  and  in  the  fear  and  confusion  of  the  moment 
they  greatly  magnified  the  number  of  their  assailants. 
Accordingly,  after  a  few  random  shots,  they  precipitately 
fled,  leaving  Orianna  alone  with  those  whose  lives  she  hac? 
saved. 

Almost  caressingly  Robert  wound  his  arm  about  her 
slight  form,  as  he  said,  "  Twice  have  you  saved  my  life, 
Now,  name  your  reward,  and  if  money — " 

There  was  bitterness  in  the  tone  with  which  Ori 
anna  interrupted  him,  saying,  "Money!  Orianna  never 
works  for  money.  All  she  asks  is  that  you  let  her  go, 

for  the  path  is  long  which  she  must  tread  ere  the  sun's 

rising." 

"  To-night !  You  will  not  leave  us  to-night !  "  said 
Robert. 

"  Urge  me  not,"  answered  Orianna,  "  for  by  the  *?rig 

warn  door  at  Grassy  Spring  Narretta  waits,  and  wonders 

why  I  linger." 
Remonstrance  was  useless,  for  even  while  Robert  was 

speaking,  she  moved  away,  and  the  echo  of  her  footfall 

was  scarcely  heard,  so  rapid  and  cat-like  was  the  tread 


THE  BRIDAL.  301 

with  which  she  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of  the  woods. 
Robert  looked  thoughtfully  after  her  for  a  time,  and  then, 
with  something  very  like  a  half  smothered  sigh,  he  turned 
away.  Could  that  sigh,  faint  as  it  was,  have  fallen  on  the 
ear  of  the  lone  Indian  girl,  she  would  have  felt  fully  re 
paid  for  her  toil,  but  now  a  weight  of  sorrow  lay  upon 
her  young  heart,  crushing  each  flower  of  gladness,  even 
as  she,  with  impatient  tread,  crushed  beneath  her  feet 
the  yellow  leaves  of  autumn. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ORIANNA'S      FAITH. 

LONG  had  the  old  square  table,  with  its  cloth  of  snowy 
whiteness  and  its  load  of  eatables,  waited  the  coming  of 
the  bridal  party.  Many  times  had  Mrs.  Wilder  stood  in 
the  doorway,  and  strained  her  eyes  to  catch  a  sight  of 
the  expected  company,  and  more  than  many  times  had 
old  Dillah  declared  "  that  the  corn  cake  which  riz  so  nice 
would  be  fell  as  flat  as  a  pewer  platter,  if  they  didn't  come 
along." 

At  length,  from  the  top  of  a  large  old  maple,  in  whose 
boughs  several  young  Africans  were  safely  ensconced, 
there  came  the  joyful  cry  .of,  "There,  they's  comin'. 
That's  the  new  miss  with  the  tail  of  her  dress  floppin' 
round  the  horses'  heels.  Jimminy !  ain't  she  a  tall  one ! " 
and  the  youngsters  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  perched 
themselves,  some  on  the  fence  and  others  on  the  gate, 
with  eyes  and  mouth  open  to  whatever  might  happen. 

In  the  doorway  Mrs.  Wilder  received  the  bride,  and 


302  GLEN'S  CEEJEK. 

the  ready  tears  gushed  forth  as  for  the  first  time  in  he* 
life  she  folded  to  her  heart  a  daughter.  From  his  stool 
in  the  corner,  Charlie  came,  and  thro  wing  his  arms  around 
Marian's  neck,  he  said,  "I  know  I  shall  love  you,  for  you 
look  so  much  like  Orianna !  " 

Old  Dillah,  who  was  pressing  forward  to  offer  her  con 
gratulations,  was  so  much  surprised  that  she  forgot  the 
bow  and  fine  speech  which,  for  more  than  a  week,  she  had 
been  practicing.  Her  command  of  language,  however, 
did  not  wholly  desert  her,  for  she  said,  somewhat  warmly, 
"  Clar  for 't,  Master  Charles,  young  miss  won't  feel  much 
sot  up  to  be  told  she  favors  a  black  Injun." 

George,  too,  was  evidently  piqued  at  having  his  bride 
likened  to  an  Indian,  but  Robert  came  to  Charlie's  relief, 
saying,  "  that  he  had  often  noticed  how  wholly  unlike  an 
Indian  were  the  features  of  Orianna,  and  that  were  her 
skin  a  few  shades  lighter,  she  would  be  far  more  beauti 
ful  than  many  pale-cheeked  belies,  with  their  golden  curls 
and  snowy  brows." 

The  conversation  now  turned  upon  Orianna,  and  the 
strong  affection  which  existed  between  her  and  Charlie, 
whom  Robert  teased  unmercifully  about  his  "  dark-eyed 
ladye  love." 

Charlie  bore  it  manfully,  and  ere  the  evening  was  spent, 
he  had  promised  to  take  Marian  with  him  when  next  ho 
visited  his  Indian  friend.  This  promise  he  fulfilled,  and 
the  meeting  between  the  two  girls  was  perfectly  simple 
and  natural.  Both  were  prepared  to  like  each  other,  and 
both  looked  curiously,  one  at  the  other,  although  Marian 
at  last  became  uneasy  at  the  deep,  earnest  gaze  which 
those  full,  black  eyes  bent  upon  her,  while  their  owner 
occasionally  whispered,  "  Marian,  Marian." 

Visions  of  sorcery  and  witchcraft  passed  before  her 
mind,  and  still,  turn  which  way  she  would,  she  felt  thai 


OKIANNA'S  FAITH.  303 

the  lark  girl's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  a  strangely 
fascinating  look.  But  fear  not,  young  Marian,  for  though 
she  strokes  your  silken  curls,  and  caressingly  touches  your 
soft  cheek,  the  forest  maiden  will  do  you  no  harm.  At 
length  Marian's  timidity  gave  way,  and  when  she  arose 
to  go,  she  did  not  refuse  her  hand  to  Orianna,  who  for  a 
time  kept  it  between  her  own,  as  if  admiring  its  white 
ness  ;  then  suddenly  throwing  it  from  her,  she  said,  "  Oh, 
why  can't  Orianna  be  white  and  handsome,  too  !  " 

"  You  are  handsome,"  answered  Marian.  "  Only  two 
evenings  since  I  heard  Robert  Hunting  say  that  you  were 
far  more  beautiful  than  half  the  white  girls." 

"  Who  takes  my  name  in  vain  ?  "  said  a  musical  voice, 
as  Robert  himself  appeared  before  them,  and  laid  his 
hand  gently  upon  Orianna's  glossy  hair. 

if  Marian  had  any  doubts  of  her  beauty  before,  they 
were  now  dispelled  by  the  rich  color  which  mounted  to 
her  olive  cheek,  and  the  joy  which  danced  in  her  large 
eye.  Yet  'twas  not  Robert's  presence  alone  which  so  de 
lighted  Orianna.  A  ray  of  hope  had  entered  her  heart. 
"He  thought  her  beautiful,  and  perhaps— perhaps — " 

Ah,  Orianna,  think  not  that  Robert  Hunting  will  ever 
wed  an  Indian,  for  Robert  is  no  Rolfe,  and  you  no  Po- 
cahontas ! 

As  if  divining  and  giving  words  to  her  thoughts,  Robert, 
while  seating  himself  between  the  two  girls,  and  placing 
an  arm  around'each,  said,  playfully,  "  Hang  it  all,  Orianna, 
why  were  you  not  white !  " 

"  Don't,  Bob,"  whispered  Marian,  who  with  woman's 
quick  perception  half  suspected  the  nature  of  Orianna's 
feelings  for  one  whose  life  she  twice  had  saved. 

"  Don't  what,  my  little  Puritan  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Don't  raise  hopes  which  you  know  can  never  be  real 
Lzed,"  answered  Marian. 


304  liLEN'S  Ci:_EEK. 


Robert  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  said,  "  I  reckon 
my  orthodox  cousin  is  right  ;  "  then  turning  to  Orianna, 
he  asked  how  her  reading  progressed. 

Charlie  answered  for  her,  saying  that  she  could  read  in 
words  of  one  syllable  as  well  as  any  one,  and  that  she 
knew  a  great  deal  besides  !  Robert  was  about  testing  her 
powers  of  scholarship,  when  they  were  joined  by  George 
Wilder,  before  whom  Orianna  absolutely  refused  to  open 
her  mouth,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  arose  and  left  them, 
saying,  "  I  shall  come  again,  to-morrow." 

That  night,  by  the  wigwam  fire  Narretta  was  listening 
to  her  daughter's  account  of  the  "  white  dove,"  as  she 
called  Marian.  Suddenly  a  light  seemed  to  dawn  on  Ori- 
aima's  mind,  and  clasping  her  hands  together,  she  said, 
u  Mother,  do  you  remember  when  I  was  sick,  many,  many 
moons  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes,  child,"  answered  Narretta,  and  Orianna  contin 
ued  :  "  I  slept  a  long  time,  I  know,  but  when  I  woke,  I 
remember  that  you,  or  some  one  else,  said,  "She  is  get 
ting  white  ;  it  will  never  do."  Then  I  looked  at  my 
hands,  and  they  were  almost  as  fair  as  Marian's,  but  you 
washed  me  with  something,  and  I  was  dark  again.  Tell 
me,  mother,  was  I  turning  white  ?  " 

"  Turning  white!  No,  child,"  said  Narretta;  "  now 
shut  up  and  get  to  bed." 

Orianna  obeyed,  but  she  could  not  sleep,  and  about 
midn^ht  she  stole  out  at  the  door,  and  going  to  the 
spring,  for  more  than  half  an  hour  she  bathed  her  face 
and  hands,  hoping  to  wash  off  the  offensive  color.  But 
all  her  efforts  were  vain,  and  then  on  the  withered  leaves 
she  knelt,  and  prayed  to  the  white  man's  God,  —  the  God 
who,  Charlie  had  said,  could  do  everything.  "Make  Ori 
anna  white,  make  her  white,"  were  the  only  words  she 
\attered,  but  around  her  heart  there  gathered  confidence 


ORIANNA'S  FAITH.  305 

that  her  prayer  would  be  answered,  and  impatiently  sha 
waited  for  the  morrow's  light. 

"  Mother,  am  I  white  ?  "  aroused  ETarretta  from  her 
slumbers,  just  as  the  first  sunlight  fell  across  the  floor. 

"  White !  No  ;  blacker  than  ever,"  was  the  gruff  an- 
swer,  and  Orianna's  faith  in  "  Charlie's  God  "  was  shaken, 


CHAPTER  XI- 

PBEPAEATIONS     FOE    A    JOTJBNEY. 

O'er  the  forest  dark  and  lonely, 

Death's  broad  wing  is  brooding  now 
While  each  day  the  shadow  deepens 

Over  Charlie's  fevered  brow. 

CHARLIE'S  health,  which  had  always  been  delicate, 
seemed  much  impaired  by  the  Kentucky  air,  but  with  the 
return  of  winter,  there  came  the  hacking  cough  and  dart 
ing  pain,  and  Orianna  already  foresaw  the  time  when, 
with  a  flood  of  bitter  tears,  she  would  lay  her  darling  in 
the  grave.  The  meetings  in  the  woods  were  given  up, 
and  if  Orianna  saw  her  pet  at  all,  it  was  in  his  home, 
where  she  at  length  became  a  regular  visitor,  and  where 
Marian  daily  taught  her  as  Charlie  had  before  done. 
Many  were  the  lessons  learned  in  the  sick-room  where 
Charlie  lay,  fading  day  by  day,  and  many  were  the  talks 
which  he  had  with  his  Indian  friend  concerning  the  God 
whose  power  she  questioned.  But  from  the  time  when 
she  was  able  herself  to  read  in  Charlie's  bible,  the  light 
of  truth  slowly  broke  over  her  darkened  mind. 

From  the  commencement  of  Charlie's  illness,  he  looked 
20 


306  GLEN'S  CJKEEK. 

upon  death  as  sure,  and  his  young  heart  went  back  to  his 
playmate,  Ella,  with  earnest  longings,  which  vented  them 
selves  in  pleadings  that  some  one  would  go  for  her, — 
would  bring  her  to  him.  and  let  him  look  upon  her  once 
more  ere  he  died.  'Twas  in  vain  that  his  mother  tried  to 
convince  him  of  the  impossibility  of  such  a  thing.  He 
would  only  answer,  "  I  shall  not  know  her  in  heaven,  un 
less  I  see  her  again,  for  I  have  almost  forgotten  how  she 
looked." 


"Winter  was  gone,  and  Charlie,  no  longer  able  to  sit  up, 
lay  each  day  in  his  bed,  talking  of  heaven  and  Ella,  whom 
he  now  scarcely  hoped  to  see  again.  One  afternoon  Ori- 
anna  lingered  longer  than  usual,  in  low,  earnest  conversa 
tion  with  the  sufferer.  Charlie  listened  eagerly  to  what 
she  was  saying,  while  his  eye  sparkled  and  his  fading 
cheek  glowed  as  with  the  infusion  of  new  life.  As  she 
was  about  leaving  she  whispered,  softly,  "  1ST  ever  fear 
though  the  time  be  long,  I  will  surely  bring  her." 

Yes,  Orianna  had  resolved  to  go  alone  through  the  wil 
derness  to  Virginia,  and  bring  to  the  dying  boy  the  little 
Ella.  Filled  with  this  idea,  she  hastened  home ;  but  list, 
— whose  voice  is  it,  that  on  the  threshold  of  her  father's 
door  makes  her  quake  with  fear  ?  Ah,  Orianna  kens  full 
well  that  'tis  Wahlaga !  He  has  returned  to  claim  his 
bride,  and  instantly  visions  of  the  pale,  dying  Charlie,  the 
fiir  off  Ella,  and  of  one,  too,  whose  name  she  scarcely 
dared  breathe,  rose  before  her,  as  in  mute  agony  she 
leaned  against  the  door. 

But  her  thoughts  soon  resolved  themselves  into  one 
fixed  determination — "I  will  never  marry  him;"  and 
thi-n  witli  a  firm  step  she  entered  the  cabin.  Wahlaga 


PKEPAKATIONS  FOE  A  JOUIiKEY.  307 

must  have  guessed  her  feelings,  for  he  greeted  her  mood 
ily,  and  immediately  left  her  with  her  parents.  To  her 
father,  she  instantly  confided  her  plan  of  going  for  Ella, 
and  as  she  had  expected,  he  sternly  forbade  it,  saying  she 
should  stay  and  marry  Wahlaga. 

Owanno  was  surprised  at  the  decided  manner  with 
which  Orianna  replied,  "  Never,  father,  never.  I  will 
die  in  the  deep  river  first." 

At  this  juncture  Wahlaga  entered,  and  the  discussion 
grew  warmer  and  more  earnest.  Words  more  angry  the 
chieftain  spoke  to  his  daughter  than  ever  before  he  had 
done.  Suddenly  his  manner  softened,  and  concerning  her 
going  for  Ella,  he  said,  "  If  you  marry  Wahlaga,  you  can 
go ;  otherwise  you  cannot,  unless  you  run  away." 

"And  if  she  does  that,"  fiercely  continued  Wahlaga, 
"  I  swear  by  the  Great  Spirit,  I'll  never  rest  until  I've 
shed  the  blood  of  every  pale-face  in  that  nest—sick  whi 
ning  boy  and  all." 

Like  one  benumbed  by  some  great  and  sudden  calam 
ity,  Orianna  stood  speechless,  until  her  father  asked, 
"Will  you  go?" 

Then,  rousing  herself,  she  said,  "  I  cannot  answer  now ; 
wait  till  to-morrow."  Then  forth  from  the  cabin  she  went, 
and  onward  through  the  fast  deepening  twilight  she  fled, 
until  through  an  opening  in  the  trees  she  espied  the  light 
which  gleamed  from  Charlie's  sick-room.  Softly  ap 
proaching  the  window,  she  looked  in  and  saw  a  sight 
which  stopped  for  a  moment  the  tumultuous  beatings  of 
her  heart,  and  wrung  from  her  a  shriek  of  anguish.  Sup 
ported  by  pillows  lay  Charlie,  panting  for  breath,  while 
slowly  from  his  white  lips  issued  drops  of  blood,  which 
Marian  gently  wiped  away,  while  the  rest  of  the  family  were 
doing  what  they  could  to  restore  him.  When  Orianna's 
loud  cry  of  agony  echoed  through  the  room,  Charlia 


308  GLEN'S  CKEEK. 

slowly  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  in  an  instant  the  Indian 
girl  was  beside  him,  exclaiming,  wildly,  "  Charlie,  Charlie, 
do  not  die.  I'll  marry  him,  I'll  go  for  her,  I'll  do  any 
thing." 

The  astonished  family  at  length  succeeded  in  pacifying 
her,  by  telling  her  that  Charlie  had,  in  a  fit  of  coughing, 
ruptured  a  blood  vessel,  but  that  there  was  no  immediate 
danger  if  she  would  keep  quiet.  Quickly  the  great  ag 
ony  of  her  heart  was  hushed,  and  silently  she  stood  by 
the  bedside  ;  nor  did  they  who  looked  on  her  calm  face 
once  dream  of  the  tornado  within,  or  how  like  daggers 
were  the  words  of  Charlie,  who,  in  his  disturbed  sleep, 
occasionally  murmured,  "  Ella, — oh,  Ella, — has  Orianna 
gone  ? — she  said  she  would." 

Suddenly  turning  to  Marian,  Orianna,  with  a  pressure 
of  the  hand  almost  crushing,  said,  "  Tell  me  what  to  do  ?  " 
and  from  the  little  cot,  Charlie,  ail  unconsciously  answered, 
"  Go  for  Ella." 

"  I  will,"  said  Orianna,  and  ere  Marian  had  recovered 
from  her  astonishment,  she  was  gone.  When  alone  in  the 
forest,  she  at  first  resolved  to  start  directly  for  Virginia, 
but  the  remembrance  of  Wahlaga'si  threat  prevented  her, 
and  then  again  in  the  stilly  night  the  heroic  girl  knelt  and 
asked  of  Charlie's  God  what  she  should  do. 

Owanno  was  surprised  when,  at  a  late  hour  that  night, 
Orianna  returned,  and  expressed  her  willingness  to  marry 
Wahlaga,  on  condition  that  she  should  first  go  for  EIJa, 
and  that  he  should  not  follow  her. 

"  What  proof  have  we  that  you  will  return  ?  "  asked 
Wahlaga,  who  was  present. 

Orianna's  lip  curled  haughtily,  as  she  answered,  "  Orkn- 
na  never  yet  broke  her  word." 

"  The  tomahawk  and  death  to  those  you  love,  if  you 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  A  JOURNEY.          309 

i 

fail  of  coming,"  continued  the  savage,  and  "  Be  it  so," 
was  the  reply. 

Old  ISTarretta  with  streaming  eyes  would  fain  have  in 
terposed  a  word  for  her  beloved  child,  but  aught  from  her 
would  have  been  unavailing.  So  on  the  poor  girl's  head 
which  drooped  heavily  upon  her  lap,  she  laid  her  hard, 
withered  hands,  and  her  tears  fell  soothingly  on  the 
troubled  heart  of  one  who  stood  in  so  much  need  of 
sympathy. 

With  the  coming  of  daylight  Orianna  departed.  JSTar- 
retta  accompanied  her  a  short  distance,  and  learned  from 
her  how  much  more  than  her  life  she  loved  the  white  man, 
and  that  were  it  not  for  this,  not  half  so  terrible  would  be 
her  marriage  with  Wahlaga. 

"  I  would  help  you  if  I  could,"  said  ISTarretta,  "  but  I  can- 
not,  though  each  night  I  will  ask  the  Great  Spirit  to  taka 
care  of  you." 

So  they  parted,  Narretta  to  return  to  her  lone  cabin, 
and  Orianna  to  pursue  her  way,  she  scarce  knew  whither. 
For  many  days  they  missed  her  in  the  sick-room,  where 
all  but  Charlie  wondered  why  she  tarried,  and  he  finally 
succeeded  in  convincing  them  that  she  had  reaUy  gone  for 
Ella,  though  at  what  a  fearful  sacrifice  he  knew  not. 


CHAPTER  XH. 

ELLA. 


THE  town  of  P is  almost  exactly  east  of  Glen's 

Creek,  and  by  keeping  constantly  in  that  direction,  Ori 
anna  had  but  little  difficulty  in  finding  her  way.  In  twelve 
days'  time  she  accomplished  her  journey,  stopping  for  food 


310  GLEN'S   6KEEK. 

• 

and  lodging  at  the  numerous  wigwams  which  lay  on  her 
road. 

It  was  near  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  when,  at  last, 
she  entered  the  woods  on  the  borders  of  which  lay  the 

settlement  of  P .  Wearied  with  her  day's  toil,  she 

sought  a  resting-place  beneath  the  same  old  oak  where, 
seventeen  years  before,  Mr.  Gorton  had  laid  his  little 
Madeline  ;  and  the  same  large,  rough  stone  which  he  had 
placed  there  to  mark  the  spot,  and  which  had  since  fallen 
down,  ROW  served  her  for  a  seat.  But  Orianna  knew  it 
not,  nor  ever  dreamed  that  often  had  Robert  and  Marian 
stood  there,  the  one  listening  tearfully,  while  the  other 
told  her  all  he  could  remember  of  the  sister  who,  in  child 
ish  playfulness,  he  had  often  called  his  little  wife. 

It  was  now  near  the  first  of  April,  and  already  had  the 
forest  trees  put  forth  many  a  dark  green  leaflet,  while  the 
song  birds  gaily  caroled  of  the  coming  summer ;  but  Ori 
anna  did  not  hear  them.  Sadly  her  heart  went  back  to 
her  home,  ana  what  there  awaited  her.  Weary  and  worn, 
it  is  not  strange  that  for  a  time  she  yielded  to  the  despair 
which  had  gathered  about  her  heart.  Covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  she  wept  bitterly,  nor  until  twice  repeated 
did  she  hear  the  words,  "  What  makes  you  cry  so  ?  "  ut 
tered  in  the  soft  tones  of  childhood. 

Looking  up,  she  saw  before  her  a  little  girl,  her  deep 
blue  eyes  filled  with  wonder  and  her  tiny  hands  filled  with 
the  wild  flowers  of  spring. 

Something  whispered  to  Orianna  that  it  was  Ella,  and 
brushing  away  her  tears,  she  answered,  "  Orianna  is  tired, 
for  she  has  come  a  long  way." 

"  What  have  you  come  for'?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  Charlie  sent  me.  Do  you  know  Charlie  ?  "  and  Ori 
anna  looked  earnestly  at  the  little  girl,  whose  b'iae  eyes 
opened  wider,  and  whose  tiny  hands  dropped  the  dower- 


ELLA.  311 

ets,  as  she  answered,  "  Charlie,  my  cousin  Charlie  ?  Have 
you  come  from  him  ?  "What  word  did  he  send  me  ?  " 

"  Walk  with  me  and  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Orianna,  ris 
ing  and  taking  by  the  hand  the  unresisting  child,  who, 
with  the  ready  instinct  of  childhood,  could  discriminate 
between  a  friend  and  foe. 

For  more  than  an  hour  they  walked  rapidly  on,  Ella,  in 
her  eagerness  to  hear  from  Charlie,  never  once  thinking 
how  fast  the  distance  between  herself  and  her  home  was 
increasing ;  nor  had  she  a  thought  of  her  companion's  in 
tention,  until  Orianna,  suddenly  lifting  her  in  her  arms, 
said,  "  I  promised  Charlie  I  would  bring  you,  and  for  that 
have  I  come." 

Then  a  cry  of  fear  burst  from  Ella,  who  struggled  vainly 
to  escape  from  the  arms  which  gently,  but  tightly,  held 
her.  "  Let  me  go,  oh,  please  let  me  go,"  she  cried,  as 
Orianna's  walk  quickened  into  a  run ;  but  Orianna  only 
replied,  "  I  told  Charlie  I  would  bring  you,  and  I  promise 
you  shall  not  be  hurt." 

"  Mother,  oh,  mother,  who  will  tell  my  mother  ?  "  asked 
Ella. 

"  I  will  send  some  one  to  her  in  the  morning,"  answered 
Orianna ;  and  then  in  order  to  soothe  the  excited  child, 
she  commenced  narrating  anecdotes  of  Charlie  and  the 
place  to  which  they  were  going. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  escape,  Ella  by  degrees  grew 
calm,  and  as  the  night  closed  in,  she  fell  asleep  in  the  arms 
of  Orianna,  who,  with  almost  superhuman  efforts,  sped  on 
until  a  wigwam  was  reached.  There  for  a  short  time  she 
ested,  and  won  from  a  young  Indian  a  promise  that  he 
would  next  morning  acquaint  Capt.  Wilder  of  the  where 
abouts  of  his  child.  Fearing  pursuit,  she  could  not  be  pre 
vailed  upon  to  stay  all  night,  but  started  forward,  still 


312  GLEN'S   CHEEK. 

keeping  in  her  arms  the  little  Ella,  who  at  last  slept  aa 
Boundly  as  ever  she  had  done  in  her  soft  bed  at  home. 

The  night  was  far  spent  when  Orianna  finally  stopped 
beneath  the  shelter  of  a  large,  overhanging  rock.  The 
movement  aroused  Ella,  who  instantly  comprehending 
where  she  was,  again  plead  earnestly  that  she  might  go 
home.  Orianna  soon  convinced  her  that  to  return  alone 
was  impossible,  and  then  painted  the  meeting  between  her 
self  and  Charlie  so  glowingly,  that  though  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  her  voice  was  more  cheerful,  as  she  asked, 
"  And  will  you  surely  bring  me  back  ?  " 

"  As  yonder  stars  fade  in  the  rising  sun,  so  surely  shall 
you  go  home,"  said  Orianna.  Then  spreading  in  her  lap 
the  blanket  which,  with  ready  forethought,  she  had 
brought  from  home,  she  bade  Ella  lie  down  and  sleep. 

"  And  will  you  keep  the  bad  Indians  off  ?  "  asked  Ella, 
looking  shudderingly  around  at  the  dark  woods. 

"  No  one  will  harm  you  while  I  am  here,"  was  Orianna's 
reply,  and  with  the  trusting  faith  of  childhood  Ella  was 
soon  fast  asleep,  while  Orianna  carefully  watched  her 
slumbers. 

Once  during  her  night  vigils  she  was  startled  by  the 
distant  cry  of  some  wild  beast,  but  it  came  not  near,  and 
the  morning  found  them  both  unharmed.  Dividing  with 
her  little  charge  the  corn  bread  and  cold  venison  which 
had  been  procured  at  the  wigwam,  Orianna  again  set  for 
ward,  leading  Ella  by  the  hand,  and  beguiling  the  hours 
in  every  possible  way.  The  next  night  they  passed  in,  a 
wigwam,  where  dusky  faces  bent  curiously  above  the 
u  pale  flower"  as  she  slept,  and  where,  next  morning,  in 
addition  to  the  bountiful  supply  of  corn-cake  and  venison, 
a  bunch  of  spring  violets  was  presented  to  Ella  by  an  In 
dian  boy,  who  had  gathered  them  expressly  for  the  "  white 
pappoose,"  as  he  called  her. 


ELLA.  313 

Blest  season  of  childhood,  which  gathers  around  it  BO 
many  who  are  ready  to  smooth  the  rough  places  and 
pluck  the  sharp  thorns  which  lie  so  thickly  scattered  on 
life's  pathway !  It  was  Ella's  talisman ;  for  more  than  one 
tall  Indian,  on  learning  her  history  from  Orianna,  cheer-., 
fully  lent  a  helping  hand,  and  on  his  brawny  shoulders  car 
ried  her  from  the  sun's  rising  to  its  going  down. 

With  Ella  for  a  companion,  Orianna  proceeded  but 
slowly,  and  nearly  three  weeks  were  spent  ere  familiar 
way-marks  told  her  that  they  were  nearing  Lexington. 
"  In  less  than  two  days  we  shall  be  there,"  she  said  to 
Ella,  as  at  the  close  of  one  day  they  drew  near  that  town. 

Lighter  grew  Ella's  footsteps,  and  brighter  was  her  eye, 
while  darker  and  deeper  grew  the  shadows  around  poor 
Orianna.  She  was  right  in  her  calculations,  for  on  the  af 
ternoon  of  the  second  day  they  struck  into  the  narrow 
footpath  which  led  to  Deacon  Wilder's  house,  and  which 
she  and  Charlie  oft  had  trodden. 

Here  for  a  time  we  will  leave  them,  while  in  another 
chapter  we  will  read  what  has  taken  place  since  we  in  the 
wilderness  have  been  roaming. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    DEATH-BED. 

ANXIOUSLY  as  the  sun  was  going  down,  did  Mrs.  Wil 
der  watch  from  her  window  for  the  return  of  her  daugh 
ter,  and  as  the  gray  twilight  deepened  into  night,  and  still 
she  came  not,  the  whole  household  was  alarmed,  and 
every  house  in  the  settlement  was  visited,  to  learn,  if  pos- 


314  GLEN'S  CHEEK. 

Bible,  some  tidings  of  the  wanderer.  Some  remembered 
having  seen  her  enter  the  woods  soon  after  dinner,  but 
farther  than  that  none  could  tell ;  and  the  loud,  shrill  cry 
of  "  Lost !  lost !  A  child  lost  in  the  woods ! "  echoed  on 
the  evening  air,  and  brought  from  a  distance  many  who 
joined  in  the  unsuccessful  search,  which  lasted  all  night. 
Morning  came,  and  Mrs.  Wilder,  pale  and  distracted  with 
grief,  ran  hither  and  thither,  calling  loudly  for  her  lost 
darling. 

Three  hours  of  the  sun's  daily  journey  was  accomplished, 
when  a  young  Indian  was  seen  to  emerge  from  the  woods, 
and  rapidly  approach  the  house  of  Capt.  Wilder,  where 
he  communicated  all  he  knew  concerning  Orianna,  and 
ended  his  narrative  by  saying,  "  It  will  be  useless  to  follow 
her." 

But  Capt.  Wilder  did  not  think  so,  and  instantly  mount 
ing  his  horse,  he  started  in  pursuit ;  but  the  path  he  took 
was  entirely  different  from  the  one  chosen  by  Orianna, 
and  at  night-fall  he  returned  home,  weary  and  discouraged. 
For  some  time  he  had  been  contemplating  a  visit  to  his 
brother,  and  he  now  resolved  to  do  so,  hoping  by  this 
means  to  fall  in  with  the  fugitives.  Mrs.  Wilder  warmly 
approved  the  plan,  but  made  him  promise  that  if  no  good 
news  were  heard  of  Ella,  he  would  instantly  return. 

Taking  with  him  two  negroes,  he  started  on  his  jour 
ney,  but  no  trace  of  Orianna  did  he  discover,  and  he 
reached  Glen's  Creek  before  she  had  accomplished  half 
the  distance.  Assured  by  his  brother's  family  of  Ella's 
perfect  safety  with  the  Indian  girl,  he  grew  calm,  although 
he  impatiently  waited  their  coming. 

Meantime,  little  Charlie  had  grown  worse,  until  at  last 
he  ceased  to  speak  of  Ella,  although  he  confidently  ex 
pected  to  see  her,  and  requested  that  his  bed  might  be 
tnoved  to  a  position  from  which  he  could  discern  the  path 


THE  DEATH-BED.  315 

vrhich  led  up  from  the  woods.  There  for  many  days  ho 
watched,  and  then  turning  sadly  away,  he  said,  ''  Mother, 
now  take  me  back.  Ella  will  come,  but  I  shall  be  dead." 

From  that  tune  he  grew  worse,  and  the  afternoon  on 
which  we  left  Orianna  and  Ella  in  the  woods  was  the  last 
he  ever  saw  on  earth.  Gathered  around  the  dying  boy 
were  weeping  friends,  who  knew  that  the  mild  spring  sun 
which  so  gently  kissed  his  cold,  pale  brow,  would  never 
rise  again  for  him.  Kind  words  he  had  spoken  to  all,  and 

then  in  a  faint  whisper,  he  said,  "  Tell  Ella ; "  but 

the  sentence  was  unfinished,  for  Ella  stood  before  him, 
while  the  look  of  joy  that  lighted  up  his  face  told  how 
dear  to  him  was  the  little  girl  around  whose  neck  his  arms 
twined  so  lovingly. 

And  now  a  darker  face,  but  not  less  loving  heart,  ap 
proached,  and  whispered  softly,  "Charlie,  do  you  know 
me?" 

"  Orianna,"  was  the  answer,  as  on  her  lips  a  kiss  was 
pressed. 

Then  the  arms  unclasped  from  Ella's  neck,  over  the 
blue  eyes  the  heavy  eyelids  closed,  and  Charlie  had  gone 
home.  With  a  bitter  wail  of  sorrow  Orianna  bent  for  a 
moment  over  the  marble  form,  for  which  she  had  sacrificed 
so  much,  and  then,  from  among  those  who  fain  would 
have  detained  her,  she  went,  nor  paused  for  a  moment, 
until  the  wigwam  of  her  father  was  reached. 

In  the  doorway  she  found  Narretta,  whose  first  ercla- 
mation  was,  "  Have  you  heard  ?  Have  they  told  you  ? 
The  Great  Spirit  has  answered  my  prayer !  "  and  then  to 
her  daughter  she  unfolded  a  tale  which  we,  too,  will  nar 
rate  to  our  readers. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  on  the  day  when  Orianna 
left  home  for  Virginia,  jSTarretta  accompanied  her  a  short 
distance,  and  learned  from  her  the  story  of  her  love  for 


IU6  GLEN'S  GREEK. 

Robert.  To  tnat  story  there  was  another, — an  unob* 
served  listener, — Wahlaga,  who  from  that  hour  resolved 
to  take  the  life  of  his  pale  rival,  but  his  designs  were  foiled 
by  a  summons  from  the  invisible  world,  which  he  could 
not  disobey. 

A  week  after  Orianna's  departure,  he  was  taken  ill  of 
a  disease  contracted  at  the  Indian  camp,  where  he  had 
spent  the  winter.  All  the  stall  of  the  "  medicine  man'* 
could  not  save  him,  and  on  the  fifth  day  he  died,  cursing, 
with  his  last  breath,  his  hated  rival. 

When  it  was  known  at  Deacon  Wilder's  that  death  had 
been  at  Grassy  Spring,  words  of  kindly  sympathy  were 
sent  there  for  the  sake  of  the  noble  Orianna ;  and  for  her 
sake,  perhaps,  Owanno's  feelings  softened  toward  the  in 
habitants  of  Glen's  Creek.  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
Orianna's  feelings  on  learning  that  the  dreadful  Wahlaga 
was  dead,  really  dead,  and  would  trouble  her  no  more. 
Her  whole  being  seemed  changed,  and  the  slumber  which 
that  night  stole  o'er  her  was  sweeter  far  and  more  refresh 
ing,  than  for  many  weary  days  had  visited  her. 

At  Glen's  Creek  that  same  night  Capt.  Wilder,  with 
his  darling  Ella  pressed  to  his  bosom,  was  listening,  while 
between  her  tears  for  little  Charlie,  she  told  him  of  the 
many  virtues  of  her  Indian  companion,  urging  him  to 
send  for  her  mother,  that  she,  too,  might  know  and  love 
Orianna.  But  Ella's  strength  was  exhausted  long  before 
her  theme,  and  when,  as  her  voice  ceased,  her  father 
looked  down  upon  her,  she  was  far  in  the  depths  of 
dreamland. 


THE  DENOUEMENT.  317 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE      DENOUEMENT. 

As  if  to  mock  the  anguish  of  those  who  were  about  to  lay 
their  last-born  in  the  earth,  the  day  of  Charlie's  funeral 
was  bright  and  beautiful,  as  the  spring  days  often  are 
'neath  the  warm  Kentucky  sun.  Sweetly  the  wild  flow 
ers  were  blooming,  and  merrily  sang  the  summer  birds, 
as  underneath  a  maple  tree,  a  tree  which  stands  there  yet, 
they  dug  that  little  grave, —  the  first  grave  at  Glen's 
Creek.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gorton,  Robert,  and  several  others 
from  Lexington  had  come  to  shed  the  sympathizing  tear 
with  the  bereaved  ones,  but  besides  the  nearest  relatives, 
there  was  not  so  sincere  a  mourner  as  she  who,  apart  from 
the  rest,  looked  silently  on,  while  into  the  earth  they  low 
ered  the  cold,  dead  Charlie. 

Long  after  the  mourners  had  returned  to  their  deso~ 
late  home,  she  lingered,  and  on  the  little  mound  deplored 
in  piteous  tones  her  loss,  saying,  "  Oh,  woe  is  me,  now 
Charlie  has  crossed  the  great  river,  and  left  Orianna  all 
alone.  Who  will  love  me  now,  as  he  did  ?  " 

"  Many,  many,"  answered  Robert  Hunting,  who  pur 
posely  had  returned,  and  been  an  eye  and  ear  witness  of 
Orianna's  grief.  "  Yes,  many  will  love  you,"  he  con 
tinued,  seating  himself  by  her,  and  drawing  her  closely  to 
him.  Thqn  in  the  bewildered  girl's  ear  he  softly  whis 
pered,  "I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Orianna,  but  I  love  you, 
and  I  know,  too,  on  what  condition  you  went  to  Virginia, 
and  that  had  Wahlaga  lived,  he  had  sworn  to  murder  me 
and  marry  you." 

For  this  information  he  was  indebted  to  Narretta,  who, 
three  days  before  Wahlaga's  illness,  overhearing  him  unfold 


318  GLEN'S  CHEEK. 

his  plan  of  revenge  to  Owanno,  went  to  the  door  of  Dea 
con  Wilder's  house,  and  asking  for  Robert,  led  him  to  the 
woods,  and  there  communicated  to  him  what  he  has  just 
told  Orianna.  Robert  did  not  ask  Orianna  to  be  his 
wife ;  and  perhaps  'twas  well  that  he  did  not,  for  the  con 
fession  which  he  did  make,  added  to  the  excitement  of 
Wahlaga's  and  Charlie's  death,  was  too  much  for  a  frame 
already  weakened  by  the  hardships  attending  that  jour 
ney  to  and  from  Virginia.  The  next  morning  found  her 
burning  with  fever  and  raving  with  delirium.  Owanno, 
too,  was  smitten  by  the  same  disease  which  had  con 
signed  Wahlaga  to  an  early  grave. 

With  anxious  heart  Narretta  hurried  from  one  sufferer 
to  the  other,  and  the  first  Indian  that  looked  in  at  the 
door,  was  urged  to  go  immediately  to  Deacon  Wilder'g 
and  ask  some  one  to  come  to  her.  Robert  and  Marian 
instantly  obeyed  the  summons,  but  human  skill  could 
not  save  Owanuo.  In  three  days  after  the  commence 
ment  of  his  illness,  it  was  said  of  him  that  he  had 
gone  to  the  fair  hunting  grounds,  while  the  despairing 
howl  of  the  assembled  Indians  mingled  with  the  mourn 
ful  wail  of  the  widowed  Narretta  and  the  feeble  moans 
of  Orianna,  who  incessantly  cried,  "  Bury  me  under  the 
maple  tree  with  Charlie,  where  we  sat  when  he  told  me, — • 

where  he  told  me, "  but  what  he  told  her  she  never 

said. 

At  Marian's  request,  Mrs.  Gorton  had  remained  tor 
some  time  at  Glen's  Creek,  and  one  day,  not  long  after 
Owanno's  burial,  she  accompanied  her  daughter  to  see 
Orianna,  who,  though  very  weak,  was  still  much  better. 
They  found  her  asleep,  but  Narretta  arose  to  receive 
them.  As  Mrs.  Gorton's  eye  fell  upon  her,  an  undefined 
remembrance  of  something  past  and  gone  rose  before  her, 


THE  DENOUEMENT.  31 U 

and  at  last,  taking  the  old  Indian  woman's  hand,  she  said; 
"  Narretta,  have  I  never  met  you  before  ?  " 

"  Plenty  times,"  was  the  laconic  answer ;  and  after  n 
moment's  pause,  Mrs.  Gorton,  continued :  "  I  remember, 
now,  eighteen  or  twenty  years  ago  your  wigwam  was 
near  my  home  in  Virginia,  and  you  one  morning  came  to 
me,  saying  you  were  going  away  toward  the  setting  sun." 

"White  woman  remembers  wonderful,"  said  old 
Narretta. 

"  I  might  not  remember  so  well,"  answered  Mrs.  Gor. 
ton,  "  but  you  loved  my  little  Madeline,  and  about  the 
time  you  went  away  she  died." 

Something  out  of  doors  attracted  Narretta's  attention, 
and  she  abruptly  turned  away.  For  more  than  an  hour 
she  was  gone,  and  when  she  returned  she  was  muttering 
to  herself,  "  Yes,  I'll  do  it.  I  shall  do  it." 

"  Do  what  ?  "  asked  Marian,  a  little  alarmed  at  Narret 
ta's  excited  manner. 

But  Narretta  made  her  no  answer,  and  going  up  to 
Mrs.  Gorton,  said  rapidly,  "  Madeline  did  not  die  !  Nar 
retta  loved  her,  loved  all  children,  but  the  Great  Spirit 
gave  her  no  pappooses  of  her  own,  and  when  she  went 
away  she  stole  her.  She  took  her,  and  under  the  tree  she 
left  a  part  of  her  clothing  and  the  smashed  carcass  of  a 
young  fawn,  to  make  the  white  woman  think  the  wolves 
had  eaten  her  up." 

Here  she  stopped,  and  Mrs  Gorton,  grasping  the  wasted 
hand  of  Orianna,  turned  to  Narretta  and  said,  "  Tell  me, 
tell  me  truly,  if  this  be  Madeline,  my  long  lost  daughter !  " 

"It  is,"  answered  Narretta.  "You  know  she  waa 
never  as  fair  as  the  other  one,"  pointing  to  Marian,  "  and 
with  a  wash  of  roots  which  I  made,  she  grew  still  blacker." 

She  might  have  added,  also,  that  constant  exposure  to 
.he  weather  had  rendered  still  darker  Orianna's  complex* 


320  GLEN'S  CREEK. 

ion,  which  was  naturally  a  rich  brunette.  But  whatever 
else  she  might  have  said,  was  prevented  by  Mrs.  Gorton, 
who  fell  in  a  death-like  swoon  at  her  feet.  The  shock 
was  too  great,  to  know  that  in  the  gentle  Orianna,  whose 
noble  conduct  had  won  the  love  of  so  many  hearts,  she 
beheld  her  long  wept-for  daughter  Madeline. 

Upon  Marian  and  Orianna  the  knowledge  that  they 
were  sisters  operated  differently,  according  to  their  dif 
ferent  temperaments.  With  a  cry  of  joy  Marian  threw 
her  arms  around  Orianna's  neck,  who,  when  made  to  com 
prehend  the  reality,  burst  into  tears,  saying,  "  I  thought  I 
should  be  white,  sometime, —  I  almost  knew  I  should." 

By  this  tune  Mrs.  Gorton  had  recovered  from  her  faint 
ing  fit,  and  clasping  her  newly  found  daughter  to  her  bo 
som,  thanked  the  God  who  so  unexpectedly  had  restored 
her.  The  next  day  the  news  reached  Lexington,  bringing 
thence  Robert,  who,  in  the  intensity  of  his  joy,  seemed 
hardly  sane.  At  a  glance  he  foresaw  the  future.  Orian 
na,  for  so  he  would  always  call  her,  should  go  to  school 
for  five  years,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  images  of  a 
noble,  beautiful  bride,  rose  before  him,  as  he  hurriedly 
traversed  the  road  to  Grassy  Spring.  Their  interview"  we 
shall  not  describe,  for  no  one  witnessed  it,  though  Marian 
impatiently  remarked,  "  that  it  took  Bob  much  longer  to 
tell  what  he  had  to  say  than  it  did  George  when  he  first 
came  to  Lexington."  But  then  Marian  had  forgotten,  as 
who  will  not  forget,  or  pretend  to. 

Old  Narretta  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  not  to  share 
the  general  joy.  She  looked  upon  Orianna  as  lost  to  her 
forever,  and  heard  the  plan  of  sending  her  to  school  with 
unfeigned  sorrow.  Still,  she  made  no  objections  to  what 
ever  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gorton  chose  to  do  with  their  child ; 
and  when  Orianna  was  well  enough,  she  gave  her  consent 
that  she  should  be  removed  to  her  father'b  house,  where 


THE  DENO  U  EMEJSI T.  321 

every  possible  indulgence  was  lavished  upon  her  by  hei 
parents,  in  order  to  attach  her  to  them  and  their  mode  of 
Life. 

There  was  now  no  tie  to  bind  iN"arretta  to  Grassy 
Spring,  and  yielding  to  Orianna's  entreaties,  she  accom 
panied  her  to  Lexington,  occupying  a  cabin  which  Mr. 
Gorton  built  for  her  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  at  the  foot 
of  the  garden.  Here,  many  times  a  day,  she  saw  her  child, 
who  was  now  Robert's  daily  pupil.  But  Robert  found  it 
more  difficult  to  tame  his  Indian  girl  than  he  had  at  first 
anticipated.  On  one  subject,  that  of  dress,  she  for  a  time 
seemed  incorrigible.  Occasionally  she  would  assume  the 
style  worn  by  Marian,  but  soon  casting  it  off,  she  would 
don  her  old  costume,  in  which  she  felt  and  looked  most  at 
home.  But  one  day  the  Indian  dress  mysteriously  disap 
peared.  More  than  a  w^.ek  Orianna  sought  for  it  in  vain ; 
then,  with  a  flood  of  tears,  she  yielded  the  point,  and  wore 
whatever  her  friends  thought  proper.  Her  complexion, 
too,  with  which  great  pains  was  taken,  gradually  grew 
fair,  until  ail  trace  of  the  walnut  stain  disappeared. 

In  October  she  was  placed?  in  the  best  school  of  which 
Philadelphia  could  then  boast.  She  was  always  shy  and 
timid,  but  her  gentle  manners  and  sweet  disposition,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  romance  connected  with  her  history,  made 
her  a  general  favorite  with  her  companions,  while  the 
eagerness  with  which  she  sought  for  knowledge,  rendered 
her  equally  a  favorite  with  her  teachers.  In  speaking  of 
this  once,  to  her  mother,  who  was  visiting  her,  she  said, 
"  When  dear  Charlie  died,  I  thought  there  was  no  one 
eft  to  love  me,  but  now  it  seems  that  every  body  loves 
me." 

Here  we  will   say  a  word  concerning  little  Ella,  who, 
two  days  after  Charlie's  funeral,  and  before  Orianna's  pa- 
known,  had  gone  home  with  her  father  to 
21 


322  GLEN'S  CHEEK. 

Virginia.  Almost  constantly  sue  talked  of  Orianna,  and 
on  learning  that  she  was  Marian's  sister,  her  delight  was 
unbounded.  When  intelligence  was  received  that  she  had 
been  placed  at  school  in  Philadelphia,  Capt.  Wilder,  yield 
ing  to  Ella's  importunities,  consented  to  send  her  there, 
also.  Ella  had  not  taken  into  consideration  how  greatly 
changed  her  Indian  friend  must  necessarily  be,  and  when, 
on  reaching  Philadelphia,  a  beautiful  young  lady  entered 
the  room,  neatly  and  fashionably  attired,  she  could  scarcely 
believe  that  it  was  her  companion  of  the  forest. 

At  Orianna's  request  they  became  room-mates,  and  it 
was  difficult  to  tell  which  was  more  child-like,  the  tall 
maiden  of  twenty-one,  or  the  curly-haired  girl  of  nine. 

Five  years  seems  a  long,  long  time,  but  to  Orianna  it 
soon  glided  away,  and  then  she  left  school,  a  much  better 
scholar  than  now  is  often  graduated  at  our  most  fashionable 
seminaries.  During  her  stay  in  Philadelphia,  she  had  be 
come  greatly  attached  to  the  city,  and  Robert,  whose 
wealth  would  admit  of  his  living  where  he  pleased,  pur 
chased  a  handsome  dwelling,  fitting  it  up  according 
to  his  own  taste,  which  was*  rather  luxurious. 

Six  years  from  the  night  of  Marian's  bridal,  there  was 
•mother  wedding  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Gorton,  and  Orian 
na,  now  a  beautiful  woman  of  twenty-six,  was  the  bride. 
George  and  Marian  both  were  present,  together  with  a 
lisping  Charlie,  and  a  dark-eyed  baby  "  Orianna,"  who 
made  most  wondrous  efforts  to  grasp  the  long  diamond 
earrings  which  hung  from  its  auntie's  ears,  for,  Indian-like, 
Orianna's  passion  for  jewelry  was  strong  and  well  de 
veloped. 

Old  Narretta,  too,  was  there,  but  the  lovely  young 
creature  whose  head  so  fondly  lay  upon  her  lap,  asking  her 
blessing,  was  unseen,  for  Narretta  was  now  stone  blind. 
Already  in  her  superstitious  imagination  warnings  had 


THE  DENOUEMENT.  323 

come  from  the  spirit  world,  bidding  her  prepare  to  meet 
Owanno.  Gladly  would  Ori^nna  have  taken  her  to  her 
Philadelphia  home,  but  she  answered,  "  No,  I  will  die  and 
be  buried  in  the  woods ; "  and  the  first  letter  which  went 
from  Mrs.  Gorton  to  her  daughter,  told  that  ISTarretta  was 
at  rest. 

On  the  first  anniversary  of  Orianna's  wedding  day,  Rob 
ert,  still  madly  in  love  with  his  handsome  wife,  wished 
to  give  her  a  pleasant  surprise.  Accordingly,  besides  the 
numerous  other  costly  presents  which  he  brought  her,  he 
presented  her  with  a  large  square  box,  saying  that  its 
contents  were  for  her. 

On  opening  it,  Orianna  saw  disclosed  to  view  the  old 
Indian  dress,  whose  loss  she  years  before  had  wept. 
Bright  as'the  sunlight  of  her  happy  home  were  the  tears 
which  glittered  in  her  large  black  eyes,  as,  glancing  at  the 
rich  heavy  silk  which  now  composed  her  dress,  she  said, 
"Oh,  Bob,  how  could  you?"  and  "Bob"  answered, 
" How  could  I  what?" 


at 


"  Now,  Mary,"  said  my  Great- Aunt  Sally,  as  o'er  the 
title  of  this  tale  Jier  golden  spectacles  for  a  moment 
peered,  "  Now  Mary,  what  could  possess  you  to  choose 
such  a  subject  ?  Seems  as  though  you  had  no  knack  in 
getting  up  a  taking  title.  .Why  don't  you  ever  write 
about  '  The  Murdered  Sisters,'  or  c  Lover's  Revenge,'  or 
some  such  thrilling  themes  ?  "  and  Aunt  Sally  settled 
herself  for  her  afternoon  nap,  in  the  large,  stuffed  easy 
chair,  before  the  grate  of  glowing  Lehigh,  greatly  la 
menting  the  incapacity  of  her  niece  for  "  getting  up  ta 
king  titles." 

Dear  Aunt  Sally,  who,  since  my  earliest  remembrance, 
has  worn  the  same  sweet,  placid  smile,  the  same  neatly 
fashioned  caps,  and  carried  the  same  large  tortoise  shell 
Bnuff-box !  Could  I  not,  if  I  would,  weave  a  story  of  her 
now  so  quietly  passing  into  the  winter  of  life ! 

And  now  her  heavy  breathings  show  that  I  and  my 
story  have  ceased  to  trouble  her,  while  Malta,  the  pet  kit 
ten,  snugly  nestled  in  its  mistress'  lap,  purrs  out  her  con 
tentment,  occasionally  lifting  her  velvet  paw  toward  the 
nose  which  bows  and  nods  so  threateningly  above  her. 
Darkly  across  the  floor  fall  the  shadows  of  the  locust 
trees,  whose  long  branches  make  mournful  music  as  they 
sweep  against  the  loosened  shutter.  On  the  almost  de- 


JOSEPHINE.  325 

serted  sidewalk  is  heard  the  patter  of  the  September  rain, 
and  in  the  delicious  quiet  of  a  still,  smoky,  rainy  afternoon, 
commences  the  first  chapter  in  the  life  of  one,  who,  in  the 
somber  old  church  at  Snowdon,  was  christened  Josephine 
Clayton. 


CHAPTER  I. 

JOSEPHINE. 

THE  house  which  Uncle  Isaac  Clayton,  the  shoemaker 
of  Snowdon,  called  his,  was  an  old  brown,  gable-roofed 
building,  containing  wide  fire-places,  huge  ovens,  ash-pits 
of  corresponding  magnitude,  and  low  rooms,  where  the 
bare  rafters  looked  menacingly  down,  strikingly  suggest 
ive  of  bumped  heads,  especially  to  those  who,  being  above 
the  medium  height,  carried  their  heads  too  high.  Then 
there  were  the  little  narrow  windows,  so  far  from  the 
floor,  that  every  time  a  wagon  was  heard,  the  six  red- 
backed,  splint-bottomed  chairs  were  brought  into  requisi 
tion  by  Uncle  Isaac's  six  white-haired  boys,  all  eager  to 
know  "  who's  goin'  by !  " 

It  was  in  the  same  room  which  contained  these  six  red- 
backed  chairs,  that  Josephine  first  opened  her  eyes  on 
the  light  of  a  fair  September  morning,  and,  in  the  same 
room,  too,  the  six  white-haired  boys,  on  tip-toe,  stole  up 
to  the  bed  to  see  the  novelty,  for  never  before  had  a 
daughter  graced  Uncle  Isaac's  domestic  circle. 

"  She  makes  up  just  such  faces  and  looks  just  as  ugly 
as  Jim  did  when  he  was  a  baby,"  said  Frank,  the  oldest 
of  the  boys ;  and  with  a  whistle  which  he  meant  should 


326  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

be  very  indifferent,  he  walked  away,  followed  by  all  ms 
brothers  save  Jimmy,  who  lingered  longer  to  look  at  the 
stranger,  who  so  unceremoniously  had  usurped  his  rights 
and  privileges  as  the  youngest.  Though  cradled  in  the 
lap  of  poverty,  a  more  restless  and  ambitious  being  has 
seldom  sprung  into  existence  than  was  she,  whose  soft  cheek 
and  tiny  fingers  Jimmy  so  lovingly  caressed.  Yes,  Jimmy, 
love  her  now,  lavish  upon  her  all  the  affection  of  your 
noble  heart,  for  the  time  will  come  when  she,  a  haughty, 
beautiful  woman,  will  turn  her  back  on  you,  ashamed  to 
own  that  once  beneath  the  old  gable-roof  she  called  you 
brother. 

Over  Josephine's  early  days  we  will  not  linger,  or  stop 
to  tell  how  both  early  and  late  Uncle  Isaac's  pegs  and 
long  waxed-ends  flew,  to  meet  the  increased  demands  for 
money  which  the  new  comer  made,  nor  how  Jimmy,  in 
order  that  his  sister  might  have  the  bright  pink  dress, 
which  so  well  became  her  rosy  cheeks  and  silken  curls, 
went,  with  generous  self-denial,  without  the  new  Sunday 
coat,  wearing  the  old  patched  one,  until  it  was  hard  to 
tell  which  piece  belonged  to  the  original  article. 

It  was  no  ordinary  love  which  Jimmy  Clayton  bore 
his  only  sister ;  and  as  she  grew  older  and  he  saw  her 
passion  for  dress,  he  carefully  hoarded  every  penny 
which  he  earned,  and  then  when  she  least  expected  it, 
poured  his  treasure  into  her  lap,  thus,  with  mistaken 
kindness,  gratifying  a  fondness  for  dress  far  above  her 
means.  Though  possessing  less  of  it  than  most  small  vil 
lages,  Snowdon  had  its  ton,  its  iipper  set,  who,  while 
they  commented  upon  the  marvelous  beauty  of  Jose 
phine,  still  passed  her  by  as  one  not  of  their  number. 
This  was  exceedingly  mortifying  to  her  pride,  and  when 
at  the  school  which  she  attended,  Mabel  Howland,  the 
lawyer's  child,  spoke  sneeringly  of  "  the  poor  shoemaker's 


JOSJiPHINE.  327 

daughter,"  her  spirit  was  fully  roused,  and  she  resolved 
to  leave  no  means  untried  until  money  was  within  her 
reach.  Accordingly,  Avhen  sixteen  years  of  age,  she  was 
willingly  apprenticed  to  a  milliner  in  the  city,  with  the 
understanding  that  at  the  end  of  six  months  she  should 
return  home  for  a  short  visit.  Many  articles  which  wei  e 
absolutely  necessary  for  the  coming  winter,  did  Mrs. 
Clayton  deny  herself,  that  a  decent  outfit  might  be  pro 
cured  for  the  thankless  girl,  who,  without  a  tear,  left  the 
humble  home  she  so  much  despised. 

But,  in  spite  of  her  faults,  she  left  behind  her  loving 
hearts,  which  many  long  days  missed  her  bright,  hand 
some  face  and  bounding  footstep.  Darker  than  ever 
seemed  the  dark  old  kitchen  at  Snowdon,  while  the  cricket 
'neath  the  large  flat  stones  which  served  as  a  hearth, 
mournfully  chirped,  "  she's  gone,"  as  on  the  first  evening- 
after  her  departure  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clayton  and  Jimmy 
gathered  around  the  frugal  board.  *The  other  five  boys, 
now  grown  to  manhood,  were  away,  three  of  them  being 
respectable  farmers,  and  the  other  two  mechanics. 

Jimmy  had  always  been  a  home  boy,  and  he  remained 
with  his  mother,  learning  his  father's  trade,  and  working 
in  the  little  shop  which  had  been  built  in  the  rear  of  the 
house.  In  his  cliildhood  he  had  thirsted  for  more  knowl 
edge  than  could  be  obtained  by  a  yearly  attendance  of 
five  months  at  the  district  school  of  Snowdon,  but,  taught 
by  his  father  to  believe  that  education  was  only  for  the 
rich,  he  hushed  the  desire  he  had  once  had  for  something 
noble  and  high,  and  patiently,  day  by  day,  he  toiled  un 
complainingly  in  the  shop,  thinking  himself  sufficiently 
rewarded  by  the  smile  of  approbation  with  which  his 
mother  always  greeted  him,  and  the  few  words  of  kind 
ness  which  his  sister  occasionally  gave  him.  But  in  that 
close,  smoky  shop  was  the  germ  of  a  great  mind.  The 


S28  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOX. 

scholar  and  statesman  was  there,  who  one  day  would 
stand  forth  among  the  great  men  of  the  land. 

But  not  with  Jimmy  must  we  tarry.  Our  story  leads 
to  the  noisy  city,  where  already  had  Josephine's  uncom 
mon  beauty  been  the  subject  of  remark,  drawing  to  Mrs. 
Lamport's  shop  many  who  were  attracted  thither  by  the 
hope  of  seeing  the  beautiful  apprentice  girl,  who  was  fre 
quently  sent  to  wait  upon  them.  "  What  a  pity  that  she 
should  be  a  milliner,"  had  more  than  once  been  whispered 
in  her  hearing,'  and  ere  three  months  of  her  apprentice 
ship  had  expired,  she  was  devising  schemes  by  which  to 
rise  to  the  level  for  which  she  believed  nature  intended 
her ;  and  fortune,  or  rather  ill  fortune,  seemed  to  favor 
her  wishes. 

Among  the  millionaires  of  the  city,  was  a  Mr.  Hubbell, 
who,  with  a  gouty  foot,  restless  mind,  and  nervous,  sickly 
daughter  of  eighteen,  managed  to  kill  time  by  playing 
chess,  reading  politics,  giving  dinner  parties,  humoring 
his  daughter,  visiting  every  fashionable  watering  place, 
cursing  the  waiters,  and  finding  fault  generally.  Not  al 
ways,  however,  had  Mr.  Hubbell  possessed  so  peculiar  a 
disposition.  Late  in  life  his  quiet  bachelor  habits  had 
been  broken  by  a  young,  joyous  creature,  on  whom  he 
doted  with  an  almost  idolatrous  love  ;  but  the  same  sun 
which  first  shone  on  him,  a  happy  father,  left  him  at  its  set 
ting,  a  stricken,  desolate  mourner.  Anna,  his  cherished 
girl-wife,  had  left  him  forever.  He  had  not  thought  she 
could  die,  and  when  they  told  him  she  was  dying,  with 
the  shriek  of  a  madman  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  as  if  he 
would  contend  with  the  king  of  terrors  for  the  prize  ho 
was  bearing  away.  She  died,  and  from  the  quiet,  easy 
husband,  Enos  Hubbell  became  a  fault-finding,  fretful,  dis 
consolate  widower. 

His  daughter  Anna  had,  in  l:<;r  childhood,  been  subject 


JOSEPHINE.  329 

to  severe  and  protracted  fits  of  sickness,  and  now,  at 
eighteen,  she  was  a  pale,  delicate,  kind-hearted  girl, 
though  rather  peculiar  in  her  likes  and  dislikes,  foi  upon 
whatever  object  her  affections  chanced  to  fasten,  she  clung 
to  it  with  a  tenacity  which  nothing  ^ould  weaken.  For 
one  thing  in  particular  she  was  famous.  She  was  always 
discovering  people  whom  she  thought  "  far  below  their 
position  in  life."  These  she  generally  took  under  her 
special  notice,  and  as  might  be  expected,  usually  suc 
ceeded  in  making  them  both  discontented  and  unhappy. 

Josephine  had  been  in  Mrs.  Lamport's  employment 
nearly  three  months,  when  she  was  one  morning  sent  to 
wait  upon  Miss  Hubbell,  who  came  on  some  trifling  er 
rand.  Something  in  the  face  and  appearance  of  the  ap 
prentice  girl  deeply  interested  Anna,  who  felt  sure  that 
for  once  she  discriminated  rightly, — that  she  had  at 
last  found  one  really  worthy  of  being  her  protege, — in 
short,  Josephine  was  discovered !  Many  were  the  visits 
made  to  Mrs.  Lamport's,  until  the  intimacy  between 
Anna  and  Josephine  became  a  subject  of  gossip  among 
the  shop  girls,  each  of  whom,  according  to  her  own  pre 
tensions  for  beauty,  was  jealous  of  her  handsome  rival. 

Anna  Hubbell's  nature  was  largely  spiced  with  romance, 
and  she  had  long  sighed  for  a  companion  near  her  age, 
who  would  be  the  confidant  of  all  her  thoughts  and  feel 
ings,  and  in  Josephine  Clayton,  she  fancied  she  had 
at  last  found  the  desired  friend.  She  believed,  too,  it 
would  be  an  act  of  kindness  to  lend  her  a  helping  hand, 
for  Josephine  had  often  insinuated  that  reverse  of  fortune, 
alone,  had  placed  her  where  she  was.  To  her  father 
Anna  first  communicated  her  plan,  seizing  her  opportu 
nity  when  he  was  not  only  free  from  gout,  but  had  also 
just  beaten  her  at  chess  three  times  out  of  four.  First 
ehe  descanted  on  Josephine's  extreme  beauty  and  naturaJ 


,!l}0  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

refinement  of  manner ;  next  she  spoke  of  the  misfortune 
which  had  obliged  her  to  become  a  milliner,  and  finished 
her  argument  by  telling  how  lonely  she  herself  was, 
when  obliged  by  ill  health  to  remain  in  the  house  foi 
weeks. 

Mr.  Hubbell  heard  her  through,  and  then  striking  the 
ashes  from  his  cigar,  said,  "  Why  don't  you  come  to  the 
point  at  once,  and  say  you  want  this  girl  to  pet,  natter, 
and  make  a  fool  of  you  generally  ?  " 

"And  if  I  do,"  answered  Anna,  "you  have  no  objec 
tions,  have  you  ?  "  And  Anna  wound  her  arms  around 
her  father's  neck,  until  a  twinge  of  the  gout  suddenly  re 
turning,  he  threw  her  half  way  across  the  room,  exclaim 
ing,  "  For  pity's  sake  and  the  old  Harry,  lug  in  a  wash 
woman  for  all  of  me,  if  you  wish  to  !  " 

So  the  matter  was  settled,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour 
a  note  was  dispatched  to  Josephine,  bidding  her  come 
that  evening,  if  possible,  as  her  friend  had  something 
pleasant  to  communicate.  Just  as  the  street  lamps  were 
lighted,  Josephine  ascended  the  marble  steps  of  Mr. 
Hubbell's  stately  dwelling,  and  in  a  moment  was  in  An 
na's  room,  where  she  soon  learned  why  she  was  sent  for. 
So  unexpected  was  the  proposal,  that  for  a  time  she  waa 
mute  with  surprise,  and  then  on  her  knees  she  thanked 
Anna  Hubbell  for  the  great  good  she  was  doing  her. 

The  bells  of  the  city  were  tolling  the  hour  of  nine  ere 
Josephine  returned  to  her  pleasant  room  at  Mrs.  Lam 
port's,  which  now  looked  poor  and  humble,  compared 
with  the  elegant  home  she  was  soon  to  have.  When 
Mrs.  Lamport  was  informed  of  the  plan,  she  refused  to 
release  Josephine  until  the  term  of  her  apprenticeship 
should  have  expired,  alleging,  as  one  reason,  that  Jose 
phine  might  sometime  find  her  trade  of  great  service  to 
her.  Accordingly,  though  much  against  her  will,  Jose- 


JOSEPHINE.  331 

phino  was  obliged  to  remain  until  the  end  of  the  six 
months ;  but  she  resolved  not  to  go  home,  and  about  the 
time  when  she  would  be  expected,  she  wrote  to  her  pa 
rents,  telling  them  of  her  future  prospects,  and  saying 
tli  at,  as  Miss  Hubbell  wished  for  her  immediately,  she 
should  be  obliged  to  forego  her  expected  visit. 

Owing  to  some  mistake,  this  letter  did  not  reach  its 
destination,  and  Jimmy,  all  impatient  to  see  his  beloved 
gister,  started  for  the  city  on.  purpose  to  accompany  hei 
home.  Going  to  Mrs.  Lamport's,  he  was  told  that  "  Jose 
phine  had  gone  out  shopping."  "  Gone  to  buy  some 
presents  for  mother,  I  presume,"  thought  he,  as  he  re 
traced  his  steps  through  the  crowded  streets.  Coming 
to  a  jeweler's  shop,  he  concluded  to  step  in,  as  he  had 
long  contemplated  the  purchase  of 'a  watch.  At  the  fur 
ther  end  of  the  store  were  seated  two  young  ladies,  sur 
rounded  by  jewelry,  from  which  they  were  making  selec 
tions.  As  Jimmy  entered  the  door,  one  of  the  young  la 
dies  glanced  at  him;  their  eyes  met,  and  involuntarily 
Jimmy  started  forward,  half  exclaiming,  "  Josephine !  " 
but  the  lady's  lip  curled  scornfully,  and  a  dark  frown  low 
ered  on  her  brow  as  she  turned  quickly  away.  Jimmy 
was  puzzled,  and  glancing,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  young 
girl's  dress,  he  thought,  "Of  course  'tis  n't  Josephine; 
what  a  blunder  I  should  have  made !  " 

Just  then  the  clerk  asked  him  to  step  into  an  adjoining 
room,  where  they  would  show  him  the  kind  of  watches 
he  wished  for.  As  he  was  passing  the  two  ladies,  the  one 
whose  face  he  had  not  seen  looked  up  at  him.  He  would 
have  thought  no  more  of  this  occurrence,  had  he  not  over 
heard  her  say  to  her  companion,  "  Why,  Josephine,  that 
young  man  looks  enough  like  you  to  be  your  brother." 

The  reply,  too,  he  distinctly  heard,  uttered  in  Jose- 
phine's  well  remembered  voice :  "  Oh  fie,  Miss  Hubbell 


S32  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOtf. 

pray,  don't  take  that  clownish  clod-pole  to  be  my 
brother ! " 

Jimmy  instantly  turned  toward  the  speaker,  but  with 
her  companion  she  was  leaving  the  shop.  Mechanically 
declining  to  purchase  anything,  he  also  left,  and,  going  to 
the  hotel,  called  for  a  room,  where,  locking  himself  in,  he 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  "  Josephine,  his  sister  Jose 
phine,  was  ashamed  to  own  him, — had  denied  him ! " 
For  half  an  hour  he  wept  bitterly ;  then  over  him  a  reac 
tion  stole,  and  rising  up,  he  rapidly  paced  the  room,  say 
ing,  "Ashamed  of  me  ! — she  shall  see  the  day  when  she 
will  be  glad  that  I  am  her  brother."  Then  in  that  little 
room  was  a  resolution  made,  and  a  course  of  life  marked 
out  which  made  for  America  a  son  of  whom  she  has  since 
been  proud. 

That  evening  Jimmy  met  his  sister  at  Mrs.  Lamport's, 
but  not  as  in  the  olden  time.  A  change  had  come  over 
Mm,  which  even  Josephine  noticed,  although  she  scarcely 
regretted  it.  He  oifered  no  remonstrance  when  told  that 
she  would  not  accompany  him  home ;  but,  after  bidding 
her  good-by,  he  turned  back,  and  with  a  scarcely  steady 
voice,  said,  "  When  I  return  home,  and  mother,  your 
mother,  weeps  because  you  do  not  come,  shall  I  tell  her 
that  you  sent  no  word  of  love  ?  " 

"  Why,  Jim,"  said  Josephine,  "  what  a  strange  mood 
you  are  in  to-night !  Of  course,  I  send  my  love  to  all  of 
them.  Have  n't  I  told  you  so  ?  If  I  have  n't,  it  was  be 
cause  I  forgot  it." 

"  One  of  us,  at  least,  will  not  forget  you  so  easily,"  an 
swered  Jimmy,  but  lie  told  not  what  fresh  cause  he  had 
for  remembrance. 


A  PEEP  AT  THE  GABLE-KOCXFED  HOUSE.  333 

CHAPTER  H. 

A.  PEEP   AT  THE   GABLE-EOOFED   HOUSE  AT  SNOWDO'N. 

NEVER  was  floor  scoured  whiter  than  was  the  floor  in 
the  long,  dark  kitchen  at  Snowdon,  on  the  day  when  Mrs 
Clayton,  with  a  mother's  joy,  said,  "  Josephine  is  com 
ing  to-night."  Everything  within  told  of  recent  renova 
tion  and  fixing  up,  and  the  large  square  room,  whose  four 
bare  walls  had  echoed  back  the  first  shrill  cry  of  Uncle 
Isaac's  seven  children,  now  looked  really  neat  and  pretty, 
with  its  bright  rag  carpet,  its  polished  brass  andirons, 
and  its  six  flag-bottomed  chairs,  for  the  old  red-backs  had 
long  since  been  removed  to  the  kitchen,  their  place  being 
supplied  by  six  yellow  chairs,  which  now  in  turn  gave  up 
their  long  standing  right  to  flag-bottoms  of  a  more  mod 
ern  date. 

The  two  boys  who  lived  nearest  came  home,  the  one 
bringing  several  pounds  of  coffee,  while  the  other  brought 
the  snow-white  sugar  loaf,  which  was  only  to  be  used  in 
Josephine's  cup,  for  "Josephine  was  coming  home." 
Yes,  "Josephine  was  coming  home,"  and  Uncle  Isaac  fin 
ished  work  full  three  hours  earlier,  in  order  that  he  might 
have  ample  time  to  remove  the  heavy  beard,  don  the 
clean  linen,  and  assume  the  blue,  Sunday  coat  with  the 
brass  buttons. 

In  one  corner  of  the  old  rickety  barn,  a  turkey,  the 
only  turkey  Isaac  Clayton  owned,  had  long  been  fatten 
ing,  and  now  in  the  oven  was  roasting,  for  "  Josephine 
was  coming  home;"  and  as  the  sun  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  western  horizon,  Mrs.  Clayton's  step  grew 
lighter,  while  the  smile  on  her  face  grew  brighter  and 
more  exultant.  Again  was  the  white  counterpane  on  the 


334  THE  GAELE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

best  bed  smoothed,  and  the  large  round  pillows  gently 
patted,  for  Josephine's  soft,  fair  cheek  would  ere  long 
nestle  there.  Alas !  poor,  fond,  but  disappointed  mother! 
The  Josephine,  so  anxiously  waited  for,  slept  that  night 
on  finer  linen  and  softer  couch  than  could  be  found,  I 
ween,  'neath  the  gable-roofed  house  at  Snowdon. 

Now  the  sun  has  set  behind  a  pile  of  purple  clouds, 
and  there  is  darkness  in  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
house  at  Snowdon.  The  maple  fire  in  the  large  square 
room  is  crackling  and  laughing  and  blazing,  and  casting 
on  the  somber  walls  fantastic  shadows,  which  chase  each 
other,  "  chassee,  cross  over,  and  then  cross  back,"  while 
to  the  dancing  flames  Uncle  Isaac  adds  still  another  stick, 
for  it  is  a  raw  March  night,  and  Josephine  will  be  cold. 
Upon  the  time-worn  bridge  which  crosses  Snowdon  creek 
is  heard  the  sound  of  wheels ;  and  the  crack  of  the  driver's 
whip,  together  with  the  tramp  of  many  feet,  shows  that 
the  stage  is  coming  at  last.  But  what !  Why  does  not 
the  driver  stop  at  the  little  board  gate  which  stands  so 
invitingly  open  ?  Is  he  going  to  let  Josephine  dismount 
in  the  muddy  street  ? 

Before  these  queries  are  satisfactorily  solved,  the  stage 
rattles  on,  and  only  Jimmy  stands  among  them,  beset  by 
inquiries  for  Josephine. 

"  Wait  until  I  get  to  the  fire  and  I  will  tell  you,"  said 
he,  as  he  blew  his  red  fingers ;  but  Mrs.  Clayton  could 
not  wait,  and  leading  him  toward  the  house,  she  said, 
"  Tell  me,  is  Josephine  sick  ?  " 

"Perfectly  well,  I  believe,"  he  answered,  and  then, 
when  seated  before  the  cheerful  blaze,  he  told  them  wLy 
he  was  alone ;  but  of  the  insult  he  had  received  he  said 
nothing.  That  w^as  a  secret,  which  he  kept  to  himself, 
brooding  over  it  until  its  venom  ate  into  his  inmost  soul. 

It  was  a  sad  group  which  gathered  around  the  supper 


A  PEEP  AT  THE  GABLE'EOOFED  HOUSE.  335 

table  that  night ;  and,  as  over  the  dishes  she  had  prepared 
with  so  much  care  Jimmy  saw  his  mother's  tears  fall,  hig 
heart  swelled  with  resentment,  and  he  longed  to  tell  her 
how  unworthy  was  the  selfish  girl  who  scorned  her  own 
brother,  but  he  did  not,  though  he  resolved,  by  an  in 
creased  kindness  of  manner,  to  compensate  his  honored 
mother  for  the  love  which  Josephine  refused  to  give. 
Noble  Jimmy !  In  this  world  there  are  choice  spirits  like 
yours,  but  their  name  is  not  legion ! 

Next  morning  the  two  older  boys  returned  to  their  em 
ployment,  while  Mr.  Clayton  sold  to  Mabel  Howland,  who 
had  long  coveted  them,  the  fairy-like  slippers,  which  for 
two  weeks  he  had  kept  for  his  daughter ;  and  amid  a  rain 
of  tears  Mrs.  Clayton  put  away  in  the  drawer  the  lamb's- 
wool  stockings  which  she  had  knit  for  Josephine,  weaving 
in  with  each  thread  the  golden  fibers  of  a  mother's  undy 
ing  love.  After  his  daily  work  was  done,  Jimmy  stole 
up  to  the  little  green  trunk  under  the  gable-roof  where 
lay  the  pile  of  bright  half  dollars  he  had  hoarded  for  Jo 
sephine.  Counting  out  half,  he  threw  them  into  his  moth 
er's  lap,  and  with  the  remainder  repaired  to  the  Snowdor 
bookstore,  exchanging  them  for  their  value  in  books. 
The  old  desire  for  learning  had  returned,  and  early  and 
late  was  each  leisure  moment  improved.  His  parents  of 
fered  no  opposition,  but  approved  his  plan  of  reciting  two 
hours  each  day  to  Mr.  Allen,  the  clergyman,  who  became 
much  interested  in  the  young  student.  "  Excelsior"  was 
Jimmy's  motto,  and  his  teacher  became  surprised  at  the 
rapid  improvement  and  the  magnitude  of  the  mind  com 
mitted  to  his  care.  Ere  long,  Jimmy's  fame  as  a  scholar 
became  known  throughout  the  village,  attracting  toward 
him  many  who  had  never  before  noticed  the  humble  boy, 
except,  perhaps,  to  remark  his  fine  face  and  figure.  Now, 
however,  they  came  thronging  about  him,  offering  books 


830  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT 

and  advice  in  large  quantities.  But  Jimmy  respectfully 
declined  their  attentions,  for  Mr.  Allen's  library,  to  which 
he  had  free  access,  contained  whatever  books  he  needed, 
and  his  good  sense,  together  with  Mr.  Allen's  experience, 
furnished  all  the  advice  necessary.  At  one  time  Mr.  Al 
len  hoped  that  the  brilliant  talents,  which  he  knew  hia 
young  friend  possessed,  would  be  devoted  to  the  minis 
try;  but  Jimmy's  taste  and  disposition  turned  toward 
the  bar,  and  as  Judge  Howland  was  in  want  of  a  clerk, 
Mr.  Clayton  was  induced  to  give  up  the  services  of  his 
son,  who  now  bent  all  his  energies  upon  the  study  of  law, 
and  the  course  of  instruction  which  Mr.  Allen  had  marked 
out  for  him.  Leaving  him  to  pursue  his  onward  path  to 
greatness,  we  will  return  to  Josephine,  who  for  some 
time  has  been  the  bosom  friend  and  companion  of  Anna 
Hubbell. 


CHAPTER  ILL 

LOCUST      GROVE. 

ABOUT  fifty  miles  west  of  the  city,  at  the  foot  of  a 
bright  sheet  of  water,  lies  the  small  village  of  Lockland, 
consisting  of  one  broad,  handsome  street,  and  two  narrow 
ones,  diverging  at  right  angles.  The  quiet  which  forever 
reigns  in  this  secluded  spot,  seemed  not  unlike  the  deep 
hush  of  a  Sabbath  morning.  In  the  center  of  the  village 
stand  the  two  dry  goods  stores,  where  kind-hearted  clerks> 
in  consideration  of  its  being  you,  measured  off  calico  at  a 
shilling  per  yard,  which  positively  cost  fifteen  cents,  and 
silks  for  a  dollar,  which  couldn't  be  bought  in  the  city 
for  less  than  a  dollar  and  a  quarter. 


LOCUST  GKOVE.  337 

Directly  opposite  these  sacrificing  stores  stands  the  ho 
tel,  on  whose  creaking  old  sign  is  written  in  flaming  let 
ters,  "  Temperance  House,"  although  the  village  gossips, 
particularly  the  woman  who  lives  next  door,  have  fre 
quently  hinted,  confidentially  of  course,  that  the  word 
"temperance"  was  all  humbug.  Side  by  side  with  the' 
hotel  stands  the  old  brick  church,  the  only  church  in 
Lockland. 

A  little  out  of  the  village,  and  on  an  eminence  which 
overlooks  it,  is  a  handsome,  white  cottage,  which,  from 
the  number  of  locust  trees  around  it,  had  long  been 
known  as  "  Locust  Grove."  This  cottage  was  the  prop 
erty  of  Mrs.  Wilson,  Anna  Hubbell's  grandmother,  and 
thither,  each  summer,  Anna  repaired,  in  hopes  of  coaxing 
to  her  pale  cheeks  the  hue  of  the  roses  which  grew  in 
such  profusion  around  the  doors,  windows,  and  porticos 
of  her  grandmother's  dwelling. 

Across  the  way  was  another,  a  large  building,  elegant 
in  structure  and  imposing  in  appearance.  It  was  owned 
by  Gen.  Granby,  who  had  retired  from  public  life,  and 
was  living  upon  the  interest  of  his  money.  These  two 
families  were  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  but  few  of  the 
villagers,  and  consequently  were  called  proud  and  haughty 
by  those  who  had  nothing  to  do  except  to  canvass  affairs 
at  Locust  Grove  and  Elmwood  Lodge,  as  Gen.  Granby's 
residence  was  termed. 

One  morning  in  early  June,  the  little  village  suddenly 
found  itself  in  a  state  of  fermentation,  occasioned  by  Mrs. 
Wilson's  traveling  carriage,  which  passed  up  Main  street, 
and  from  the  windows  of  which  looked  forth,  not  only  the 
plain,  delicate  features  of  Anna  Hubbell,  but  also  another,  a 
most  beautiful  face.  Such  eyes,  such  curls,  and  more  than 
all,  so  dazzling  a  complexion,  had  seldom  been  seen  in  Lock- 
land,  and  the  villagers  were  all  eager  to  know  who  the 
22 


3;}  8  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

stranger  could  be,  and  why  Anna  Hubbell  had  brought  her 
there.  Did  she  not  fear  her  influence  over  George  Granby, 
to  whom,  for  a  long  time,  she  was  known  to  have  been  en 
gaged,  and  who,  with  his  sister  Delphine,  had  been  travel 
ing  in  Europe,  and  was  now  daily  expected  home  ?  Still 
more  was  the  gossip  increased  when,  that  afternoon,  Lock- 
land's  back  parlors  and  sitting  rooms  were  vacated  by  their 
inmates,  who  from  behind  half-raised  curtains  and  half- 
closed  shutters,  peeped  out,  while  with  long  black  skirts 
and  leghorn  hats,  Anna  Hubbell  and  her  companion  gal 
loped  leisurely  through  the  village  and  down  upon  the  lake 
shore.  But  not  upon  Anna  did  an  eye  rest.  All  were 
fixed  upon  the  lady  at  her  side,  whose  red  lips  curled  in 
scorn  at  the  same  curiosity  of  which  she  had  often  been 
giu'lty  in  the  gable-roofed  house  in:  far  off  Snowdon. 

That  night,  in  Anna's  dressing-room,  Josephine  was 
weeping,  and  to  Anna's  repeated  inquiries  as  to  the  cause 
of  her  tears,  she  at  last  answered,  "  It  is  foolish,  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  In  the  city  ah1  knew  I  was  your  hired 
companion,  but  here,  in  the  country, —  oh,  need  they 
know  ?  " 

"  I  appreciate  your  feelings,"  said  Anna,  "  but  rest  as 
sured  that  no  one  shall  know  you  are  not  fully  my  equal. 
Grandmother,  indeed,  knows  your  real  position,  but  if  I 
request  it,  she  will  be  silent." 

So  the  terrible  secret  that  Josephine  was  poor,  and  a 
dependent,  was  kept  from  the  villagers,  who  marveled  at 
her  great  beauty  and  the  richness  of  her  attire,  for  all  hei 
wages  were  expended  in  dress.  Not  one  penny  evei 
found  its  way  to  Snowdon,  where  it  would  have  been  joy- 
fully  received,  not  because  they  were  in  actual  want  of  it, 
but  because  it  came  from  Josephine. 

Mrs.  Granby,  who  was  an  amiable  and  Lady-like  woman, 
treated  Josephine  with  great  cordiality,  frequently  ex- 


LOCUST  GEOVE.  339 

pressing  a  wish  that  her  daughter,  Delphine,  would  re 
turn,  as  it  would  be  so  pleasant  for  her  to  have  two  com 
panions  so  near.  Josephine  had  no  objections  tQ  seeing 
George  Granby,  whose  many  excellences  Anna  each  day 
lauded  to  the  skies,  but  she  greatly  dreaded  the  return 
of  Miss  Granby.  Six  years  before,  when  but  a  child,  she 
remembered  that  Mabel  Howland  had  one  day  brought 
to  school  a  cousin,  Dell  Granby,  two  or  three  years  her 
senior,  and  whose  place  of  residence  she  felt  sure  was  at 
Lockland.  Always  fearing  that  her  humble  parentage 
might  be  discovered,  she  trembled  lest  Dell  Granby 
should  recognize  her,  or  that  in  some  way  her  real  posi 
tion  should  become  known. 

"  I  shall  soon  know  the  worst,"  thought  she,  as  one  af 
ternoon,  about  three  weeks  after  her  arrival  at  Lockland, 
she  saw  a  handsome  carriage  drive  up  in  front  of  Gen. 
Granby's  residence.  From  it  sprang  a  gentleman,  who 
was  quickly  followed  by  a  young  lady  of  remarkably  ele 
gant  appearance.  After  embracing  Mrs.  Granby,  who 
came  out  to  meet  her,  she  turned  toward  the  window, 
where  Josephine  was  sitting,  and  thinking  it  was  Anna, 
playfully  threw  a  kiss  from  the  tipd  of  her  snowy,  jeweled 
fingers ;  then  she  instantly  disappeared  in  the  long  hall, 
followed  by  the  gentleman. 

"That  must  be  Dell  Granby,"  thought  Josephine;  "but 
if  that  is  her  brother,  he  is  not  one-half  as  fine  looking  as 
Anna  has  described  him  to  be ;  but  then  she  is  in  love, 
and  of  course  no  judge." 

Just  then,  Anna,  who  had  been  sleeping,  awoke.  On 
hearing  of  Delphine's  arrival,  her  cheeks  alternately 
flushed  and  grew  pale,  as  she  nervously  ordered  her  wait 
ing  maid  to  dress  her  becomingly,  preserving  at  the  same 
time  the  utmost  simplicity.  When  her  toilet  was  com 
pleted,  she  asked  Josephine's  opinion.  Both  were  stand- 


340  THE  GABLE-HOOPED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWION. 

ing  before  the  mirror,  and  as  Josephine  noticed  the  con 
trast  between  herself,  dressed  as  usual,  and  Anna,  arrayed 
in  the  most  becoming  manner,  the  thought  for  the  first 
time  entered  her  mind,  that  if  possible  she  would  supplant 
her  benefactress  in  George  Granby's  affections. 

At  that  moment  a  servant  entered,  bearing  a  tiny  note. 
Anna  hastily  read  it,  and  then  throwing  nerself  on  the 
sofa,  burst  into  tears.  Josephine  ordered  the  servant 
girl  to  leave  the  room,  and  then,  while  Anna's  face  was 
buried  in  her  hands,  she  picked  up  the  note,  and  in  a  la 
dy's  delicate  handwriting,  read : 

"  DEAR  AIS^STA — I  know  you  will  be  provoked ;  I  was, 
but  I  have  recovered  my  equanimity  now.  George,  the 
naughty  boy,  has  not  come  home.  He  is  going  to  re 
main  for  two  years  in  a  German  university.  I  am  the 
bearer  of  many  letters  and  presents  for  you,  which  you 
must  come  for.  Hugh  M'Gregor  accompanied  me  home. 
You  remember  I  wrote  you  about  him.  We  met  in  Paris, 
since  which  tune  he  has  clung  to  me  like  a  brother,  and  I 
don't  know  whether  to  like  him  or  not.  He  is  rich  and 
well  educated,  but  terribly  awkward.  It  would  make 
you  laugh  to  see  him  trying  to  play  the  agreeable  to  the 
ladies;  and  then, — shall  I  tell  you  the  dreadful  thing? 
he  wears  a  wig,  and  is  ten  years  older  than  I  am  !  Now, 
you  know  if  I  liked  him  very  much,  all  this  would  make  no 
difference,  for  I  would  marry  anything  but  a  cobbler,  if  I 
loved  him,  and  he  were  intelligent. 

"  By  the  way,  mamma  tells  me  there  is  a  handsome 
young  lady  with  you,  but  whether  in  the  capacity  of 
seamstress  or  companion,  I  have  not  found  time  to  ask 
Pray,  come  over,  sans  ceremonie. 

"  Yours,  as  ever,  DEIL." 


LOCUST  GROVE.  341 

The  cause  of  Anna's  grief  can  be  explained  in  a  few 
words.  Two  years  before,  when  only  sixteen,  she  had 
been  betrothed  to  George  Granby,  whom  she  ardently 
loved,  fearing,  at  the  same  time,  that  her  affection  was  but 
half  returned.  Their  engagement  had  been  a  sort  of  fam 
ily  arrangement,  in  which  George  tacitly  acquiesced,  for 
Anna  was  not  indifferent  to  him,  although  she  possessed 
but  few  attractions  which  could  fascinate  a  fashionable 
young  man  of  twenty-two.  Still,  he  had  never  seen  one 
whom  he  liked  better,  and  as  Anna  was  extremely  young, 
he  hoped  that  during  the  n^e  years  which  were  to  elapse 
before  their  marriage,  she  would  be  greatly  improved. 

The  last  year  he  had  spent  in  Europe,  whither  his  sis 
ter,  a  girl  of  superior  endowments,  had  accompanied  him. 
He  wrote  frequently  to  Anna,  his  letters  being  more 
like  a  brother's  than  a  lover's.  StiU  she  prized  them 
highly,  and  had  looked  forward  joyfully  to  his  return. 
But  now  he  was  not  coming,  and  as  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  sofa,  she  thought,  with  some  reason,  "  I  know 
he  does  not  love  me." 

Josephine,  too,  was  disappointed.  If  George  came  not, 
her  plan  could  not  well  be  carried  out.  But  not  long  did 
she  dwell  upon  this.  The  words  "  seamstress,"  and  "  com 
panion,"  troubled  her,  and  awoke  within  her  heart  a  ha 
tred  for  Delphine  Granby,  as  undying  as  it  was  unfounded. 
Soon,  however,  her  thoughts  took  another  channel.  This 
M'Gregor,  was  lie  not  worth  winning ;  suppose  he  was 
awkward,  he  was  rich !  and  Josephine  smiled  exultingly, 
as,  glancing  in  the  mirror,  she  smoothed  her  luxuriant 
curls,  and  said,  "  the  shoemaker's  daughter  will  yet  out 
shine  them  all " 


342  THE  GABLE-EOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

CHAPTER  IV 

DELTIIINE     AND     M  '  G  U  E  G  O  B  . 

IN  Mrs.  Wilson's  parlors  Josephine  first  met  the  two 
persons  who  were  so  greatly  to  influence  her  after  life. 
It  was  the  day  following  their  arrival,  and  Anna  had  in 
vited  them  to  tea.  Pleading  a  headache,  Josephine  did 
not  make  her  appearance  until  evening,  thinking  her 
charms  would  be  greatly  enhanced  by  candle  light. 

With  all  the  dignity  of  a  queen  she  swept  into  the 
room,  and  Anna  herself  was  surprised  at  the  ease  with 
which  she  returned  the  salutations  of  M'Gregor  and  Del- 
phine.  Seating  herself  upon  a  low  ottoman,  she  for  a 
tune  seemed  unconscious  of  M'Gregor's  presence,  but 
fixed  her  eyes  curiously  upon  Delphine,  who,  she  con 
cluded,  was  the  most  polished,  lady-like  person  she  had 
ever  seen.  Envy,  too,  crept  in,  and  mingled  with  her 
admiration,  for  though  she  knew  Miss  Granby  was  not  as 
beautiful  as  herself,  there  was  still  a  nobleness,  an  ele 
gance  of  appearance  about  her,  which  would  readily  dis 
tinguish  her  from  a  thousand. 

At  length  it  was  Delphine's  turn  to  look,  and  her  bright 
hazel  eyes  fastened  upon  Josephine,  whose  face  turned 
scarlet,  for  she  fancied  that  the  hated  words,  "  milliner," 
"  shoemaker,"  "  gable-roof,"  were  stamped  upon  her  brow 
as  legibly  as  "seamstress,"  "companion,"  were  written 
in  the  tiny  note.  Delphine  was  puzzled  at  Josephine's 
confusion,  but  soon  forgetting  it,  she  complied  with  An 
na's  request,  and  seated  herself  at  the  piano. 

"  Do  you  play,  Miss  Clayton  ?  "  asked  M'Gregor. 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 


DELPHINE  A:NT>  M'GKEGOR.  343 

"  Nor  sing  ?  "  he  returned. 

"  Certainly  not,"  Josephine  answered  somewhat  haugh 
tily.  "  If  I  could  sing  I  should  play,  of  course.  They 
usually  go  together." 

M'Gregor  was  taken  aback.  He  was  perfectly  bewil 
dered  with  Josephine's  beauty,  although  her  cool  reserve 
had  slightly  disconcerted  him ;  and  as  he  was.  nothing  of  a 
lady's  man,  he  had  tried  hard  to  think  of  something  to 
say  to  her,  and  now  that  he  said  it,  'twas  not  the  thing. 
Josephine,  however,  had  scanned  him  from  head  to  foot, 
wig  and  all,  and  with  Delphine's  assertion,  "  he  is  rich," 
still  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  had  secretly  concluded  that 
he  would  do,  in  spite  of  his  awkwardness.  Fearing  lest 
he  should  question  her  on  other  points  than  music,  she 
did  not  wait  for  him  to  broach  another  subject,  but  did  it 
herself,  by  asking  about  his  European  tour. 

Once  during  the  evening  she  heard  Delphine  telling 
Anna  that  on  her  return  home  she  had  stopped  for  a  day 
and  a  night  with  her  cousin  Mabel,  at  Snowdon.  In  an 
instant  her  brow  became  crimson ;  but  her  fears  were 
groundless,  for  not  a  word  was  spoken  of  the  "  gable- 
roof,"  and  her  heart  was  beginning  to  beat  at  its  usual 
rate,  when  Delphine  added,  "  By  the  way,  Anna,  I  must 
tell  you  that  at  Snowdon  I  saw  my  beau  ideal." 

"Indeed,"  said  Anna,  and  M'Gregor  continued:  "Oh, 
yes,  and  she  has  done  nothing  since  but  talk  of  the  hand 
some  student,  who  is  still  in  his  minority." 

"What  is  his  name  ?  "  asked  Anna. 

"  Clayton,  I  believe,"  answered  M'Gregor,  and  then 
turning  to  Josephine,  he  said,  "  A  relative  of  yours,  per 
haps  !  You  remind  me  of  him." 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  his  being  so,  for  I  have  no  rela 
tions  in  Snowdon!"  was  Josephine's  unhesitating  an 
swer  ;  and  in  the  first  part  of  the  assertion,  she  spoke 


344  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

the  truth,  for  at  Jimmy's  request,  a  knowledge  of  hia 
studies  had  been  kept  from  her,  and  she  did  not  believe 
that  Jimmy,  her  homespun  brother,  could  possibly  inter 
est  the  elegant  Miss  Granby. 

But  all  doubt  on  the  subject  was  removed,  when,  as 
Delphine  was  about  to  depart,  she  remarked,  "  There  is 
something,  too,  so  romantic  about  this  young  Clayton. 
His  father,  as  I  am  told,  is  a  poor  shoemaker  at  Snowdon, 
and  his  son,  until  recently,  has  worked  with  him  at  hia 
trade.  Just  think  of  it,  a  learned  shoemaker.  Of  course 
he  will  be  a  great  man ;  "  and  she  ran  gaily  down  the 
steps  followed  by  M'Gregor,  horribly  jealous  of  Jimmy 
Clayton,  two-thirds  in  love  with  Josephine  Clayton,  and 
never  suspecting  the  relationship  between  them. 

That  night  Josephine  bitterly  repented  her  falsehood, 
for  if  Delphine  Granby  could  be  interested  in  Jimmy, 
knowing  his  poverty,  she  really  would  not  scorn  his  sis 
ter;  but  'twas  too  late  to  retract,  and  though  she  knew  that, 
sooner  or  later,  her  lie  would  be  known,  she  resolved  to 
put  a  bold  face  upon  the  matter  and  make  the  best  of  it. 
She  had  never  spoken  of  Snowdon  as  being  the  residence 
of  her  parents,  consequently  Anna  had  no  suspicion  that 
the  student  whom  Delphine  extolled  so  highly  was  in  any 
way  connected  with  her  protege, 

It  would  make  our  story  too  long  to  enumerate  the 
many  ways  in  which  Josephine  sought  to  enslave 
M'Gregor,  who  for  three  weeks  lingered  at  Lockland, 
vacillating  between  Delphine  and  herself.  Josephine 
fascinated  him,  but  there  was  about  her  something 
which  bade  him  beware ;  and  he  never  would  have 
thought  seriously  of  her,  had  not  Delphine  kindly  but 
firmly  refused  the  hand  he  offered  her,  her  mother  mean 
time  wondering  what  she  could  object  to,  for  if  he  waa 
riot  quite  as  polished  as  some,  he  was  rich,  well  educated! 


DELPII1NE  AND  M'GREGOft.  345 

and  amiable  to  a  fault,  or  as  one  of  the  villagers  said, 
"wonderful  clever."  But  it  was  this  very  cleverness 
which  Delphine  disliked.  Had  M'Gregor  possessed  more 
intellect,  more  energy  and  decision  of  character,  she 

might ,  but  no,  she  had   seen   Jimmy  Clayton,  and 

though  she  would  not  own  it,  either  to  herself  or  to 
M'Gregor,  the  remembrance  of  his  high,  classical  brow, 
bright,  intelligent  eye,  and  sad,  handsome  face,  influenced 
her  decision. 

After  M'Gregor's  first  mortification  was  over,  he  turned 
to  Josephine,  and  in  the  sunshine  of  her  smiles  soon  for 
got  that  Delphine  had  said,  "I  can  never  love  you;" 
but,  other  than  by  actions,  he  did  not  commit  himself,  and 
when  he  left  Lockland,  he  was  not  pledged  to  Josephine, 
who  for  several  days  kept  her  bed,  troubling  in  every 
possible  way  poor  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  wondered  at  her 
grand-daughter's  fancy  in  choosing  such  a  companion,  a? 
much  as  Aunt  Sally  wondered  at  my  choice  of  a  subject. 


CHAPTER  V. 

JIMMY. 

THICK  and  fast  from  the  heavy  laden  clouds  the  fringed 
snow-flakes  had  fallen  the  livelong  day,  covering  side 
walk  and  street,  doorstep  and  roof,  with  one  thick  vail  of 
rvhiteness.  As  the  night  closed  in,  the  feathered  flakes 
ceased  to  fall,  while  in  the  western  sky  the  December  SUE 
left  a  few  red  beams,  the  promise  of  a  fair  to-morrow. 
In  Mr.  Hubbell's  parlor  the  astral  lamp  was  lighted,  and 
O* 


846  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDGX. 

coals  were  heaped  in  the  glowing  grate,  whose  bright  blaze 
rendered  still  more  brilliant  the  flowers  of  the  costly 
Brussels.  Curtains  of  rich  damask  shaded  the  windows, 
and  around  the  marble  center-table  were  seated  our  fair 
friends,  Josephine,  Anna,  and  Delphine,  the  last  of  whom 
had  recently  come  to  spend  the  winter  in  the  city. 

Josephine  seemed  nervously  anxious,  starting  up  at  ev 
ery  sound,  and  then  blushing  as  she  resumed  her  former 
attitude.  The  cause  of  her  restlessness  was,  that  she  was 
hourly  expecting  Mr.  M'Gregor,  her  affianced  husband ! 
Two  weeks  before  she  left  Lockland  he  had  visited  her, 
and  ere  his  return  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife,  re 
gretting,  meantime,  the  fatality  which  left  George  Granby 
across  the  Atlantic  until  she  was  given  to  another.  "  If 
I  could  only  see  him,"  thought  she,  "  only  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  judge  of  his  merits  and  my  chance  of  success ; " 
but  it  could  not  be.  The  ocean  lay  between  them  ;  so 
she  engaged  herself  to  M'Gregor,  with  many  assurances 
of  affection,  of  the  sincerity  of  which  our  readers  can 
judge  as  well  as  ourselves. 

As  yet  Delphine  had  no  thought  that  her  "  beau  ideal " 
was  aught  to  Josephine,  although  Anna  knew  it  all. 
Compelled  by  necessity,  Josephine  had,  with  many  tears 
and  protestations  of  grief,  confessed  her  falsehood,  and 
Anna  not  only  forgave  her,  but  weakly  took  her  agair. 
to  her  confidence,  thinking  her  sufficiently  punished  by 
the  sorrow  she  professed  to  have  felt  on  account  of  her 
sin. 

M'Gregor  had  written  that  he  should  probably  be  in 
the  city  that  night,  and  each  moment  uhey  were  expecting 
him,,  At  length  the  sound  of  a  footstep  was  heard  on  the 
threshold,  the  door-bell  echoed  through  the  hall,  Delphino 
and  Anna  exchanged  smiles,  while  Josephine  half  rose 
from  her  seat,  and  as  the  parlor  door  opened  the  six  eyes 


JTMMY.  347 

of  the  three  girls  fell  upon — M'Gregor?  no,  not  M'Gregor, 
but  Jimmy  Clayton !  He  h&d  come  to  the  city  on  busi 
ness  for  Judge  Howland,  and  had  been  commissioned  by 
Mabel  to  carry  a  letter  to  her  cousin  Delphine,  besides 
iicr  love,  which  of  course  could  not  be  sent  in  a  letter  ! 

Delphine  arose  to  meet  him,  but  not  on  her  did  his  eye ' 
rest.  It  wandered  on  until  it  fell  upon  Josephine,  to 
whom  Delphine  immediately  introduced  him.  A  little 
sarcastically  he  answered,  "Thank  you,  Miss  Granby, 
but  I  hardly  need  an  introduction  to  my  own  sister !  " 

"  Your  sister  !  "  repeated  Delphine.  "  Impossible !  " 
And  she  glanced  quickly  at  Josephine,  who  seeing  no  es 
cape  sprang  forward,  overwhelming  Jimmy  with  caresses 
and  questions  concerning  Snowdon  and  its  inhabitants, 
taking  care  to  inquire  after  the  rich  and  those  whom  Del 
phine  had  probably  heard  of,  though  she  herself  had 
never  exchanged  over  a  dozen  words  with  them. 

After  a  time  Jimmy  gave  Delphine  her  letter,  which 
elie  received  with  a  smile  and  a  glance  of  her  eyes  which 
made  his  blood  tingle,  and  when  Anna  asked  him  if  it 
were  not  unpleasant  traveling,  he  answered,  "  Quite  well, 
I  thank  you !  " 

By  this  time  Josephine's  old  coldness  had  returned. 
She  was  afraid  M'Gregor  might  come,  and,  although  she 
was  not  now  ashamed  to  own  her  brother,  she  feared  the 
result.  Jimmy  soon  arose  to  go,  but  Anna  insisted  upon 
his  remaining  all  night.  This  plan  Delphine  warmly  sec 
onded,  and  Jimmy  began  to  waver.  He  looked  at  bis 
sister,  one  word  from  whom  would  have  decided  the  mat 
ter,  but  that  word  was  not  spoken,  and  Jimmy  departed, 
saying  he  would  call  again  on  the  morrow. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  after  him  when  Delphine- 
looked  sternly  and  inquiringly  at  Josephine,  who,  in  tlm 
most  theatrical  manner,  fell  upon  her  knees,  sobbing  out 


S48  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  IIOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

the  confession  of  her  falsehood,  and  finishing  by  saying., 
"  Do  not  betray  me  to  M'Grcgor,  will  you  ?  " 

"  M'Grcgor ! "  repeated  Delphine  scornfully,  "You 
wrong  him  if  you  suppose  he  would  love  you  less  for 
your  poverty." 

"  'Tis  not  that,  'tis  not  that,"  said  Josephine,  and  Del 
phine  continued  :  "  But  he  would  despise  you  for  scorn 
ing  your  own  parents,  and  refusing  to  own  a  brother  of 
whom  you  should  be  proud." 

"  But  you  will  not  betray  me  ?  "  persisted  Josephine. 
"  Promise  that  you  will  not,  and  a  falsehood  shah1  never 
again  sully  my  lips." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  not  tell  M'Gregor,"  answered  Del 
phine,  "  but  it  will  be  long  ere  I  can  again  respect  you." 
Here  Anna  interposed  a  word  for  her  friend,  saying  that 
"  Delphine  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  contend  with 
poverty,  and  have  the  cold  finger  of  scorn  pointed  at 
her " 

"  And  if  I  had,"  interrupted  Delphine,  "  I  should  not 
revenge  myself  by  pointing  my  finger  at  my  parents  and 
brother." 

There  now  ensued  an  embarrassed  silence,  and,  as  it 
was  past  the  hour  for  M'Gregor  to  arrive,  Josephine  re 
paired  to  her  room,  gratified  to  think  that  if  her  sin  had 
found  her  out,  M'Gregor  had  not. 

The  next  day  M'Gregor  did  not  come,  but  Jimmy  did, 
and  as  he  was  about  to  leave,  he  asked  Josephine  to  accom 
pany  him  home,  saying  his  mother  would  be  delighted  to 
see  her.  Delphine  waited  for  Josephine's  answer,  that 
she  could  not  go,  as  she  was  expecting  a  friend,  and 
then  said,  "  Suppose,  Mr.  Clayton,  you  take  me  as  a  sub 
stitute." 

"  You !  "  exclaimed  Anna.     "  You  go  to  Snowdon  ! M 


JIMMY.  349 

"Yes;  why  not,"  answered  Delphine.  "Mabel  is  anx 
ious  to  see  me,  and  the  sleighing  is  fine." 

Accordingly,  next  morning,  Jimmy's  sleigh  stood  be 
fore  Mr.  Hubbell's  door,  and  Delphine,  warmly  wrapped 
in  furs  and  merinos,  tripped  down  the  steps,  and  was 
soon  seated  by  Jimmy,  whose  polite  attentions  during 
the  ride  only  increased  the  estimation  in  which  she  held 
him. 

The  same  day  that  Delphine  left  the  city,  M'Gregor 
came,  overjoyed  to  meet  his  beautiful  Josephine,  whom, 
with  strange  infatuation,  he  sincerely  loved.  That  eve 
ning,  as  they  sat  alone  in.  the  parlor,  Josephine,  fearing 
that  in  some  way  he  might  discover  the  falsehood,  deter 
mined  to  tell  him  herself.  In  the  smoothest  manner  pos 
sible,  she  told  her  story,  saying  that  her  parents  now 
lived  in  Snowdon,  but  intimated  that  they  had  not  al 
ways  resided  there.  Jimmy  wTas  then  mentioned,  and 
acknowledged  to  be  her  brother,  although  she  said  that 
he  had  been  long  in  Judge  Howland's  office  ere  she  knew 
of  it. 

M'Gregor  heard  her  through,  and  then  drawing  her 
more  closely  toward  him,  assured  her  that  he  did  not  love 
her  less  for  being  poor,  for  he  had  never  supposed  her 
rich,  and  ended  by  proposing  to  accompany  her  to  Snow 
don.  The  proposal  was  made  in  such  a  way  that  Jose 
phine  could  not  refuse,  but  she  determined  not  to  go,  for 
though  M'Gregor  might  love  her  with  poverty  in  the  dis 
tance,  she  fancied  that  a  sight  of  the  "old  gable-roof" 
and  "  shoemaker's  shop  "  would  at  once  drive  him  from 
her.  The  next  day  was  fixed  upon  for  the  journey,  but 
when  the  morning  came,  Josephine  did  not  appear  at  the 
breakfast  table,  sending  word  that  she  was  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  the  influenza !  Snowdon  of  course 
was  given  up,  and  M'Gregor  paced  the  long  parlors, 


350  THE  GAELE-EOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

inquiring  every  ten  minutes  for  Josephine,  who  knew 
enough  iiot  to  be  convalescent  too  soon^  and  all  day 
long  did  penance  by  keeping  her  bed  and  drinking  herb 
tea. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SNO  WD  ON. 

WITH  unbounded  delight  Mabel  welcomed  her  cousin 
Delphine,  but  she  whispered,  "  Now  Dell,  I  know  well 
enough  that  nothing  but  the  agreeable  escort  of  James 
Clayton  could  have  brought  you  to  this  stupid  place  in 
the  winter." 

Delphine's  only  answer  was  a  deeper  glow  on  her  cheek, 
>vhich  she  declared  was  owing  to  the  chill  night  air,  and 
Mabel  said  no  more  on  the  subject  until  they  retired  for 
the  night.  Then,  in  the  privacy  of  the  dressing  room 
and  before  a  cheerful  fire,  she  teased  and  tortured  her 
cousin  concerning  her  evident  preference  for  the  young 
student,  saying,  "  I  know  he  is  noble  and  generous,  and 
father  thinks  him  a  gem  of  rare  talents,  but  after  all — " 

"  After  all  what  ?  "  asked  Delphine,  suspending  for  a 
moment  the  operation  of  brushing  her  silken  hair. 

"  Why  he  is  of  a  very  low  family,"  answered  Mabel,  and 
Delphine  continued :  "  Why  low  ?  Is  there  anything  bad 
or  disreputable  about  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mabel.  "  I  don't  suppose  there  is  a 
more  honest,  upright  man  in  town  than  cobbler  Clayton, 
but  they  are  dreadfully  poor,  or,  as  mother  says,  shiftless. 
Why,  Dell,  one  glance  at  the  old  gable-roof,  and  on« 


SNOWDON.  351 

whiff  of  the  leather  smell,  constantly  around  it,  would  spoi? 
all  romance  connected  with  the  handsome  son." 

"  Pshaw !  "  was  Deiphine's  only  reply,  and  there  the 
conversation  ended ;  nor  was  it  resumed  again  until  two 
or  three  days  after,  when  Delphine  announced  her  inten 
tion  of  calling  on  Mrs.  Clayton ! 

"  Call  on  Mrs.  Clayton  ?  "  exclaimed  Mabel,  who  was 
listlessly  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  music  book,  and 
occasionally  striking  the  keys  of  her  piano.  "  Call  on 
Mrs.  Clayton  ?  You  cannot  be  in  earnest." 

"  I  am,"  answered  Delphine,  and  Mabel  continued  : 
"  Pray  don't  ask  me  to  accompany  you." 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed  on  that  score,  as  I  greatly 
prefer  going  alone,"  was  Deiphine's  answer,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

In  a  few  moments  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  "  gable- 
roof,"  which  really  looked  poor  enough ;  for,  as  Mrs.  How- 
land  had  expressed  it,  Uncle  Isaac  was  rather  "  shiftless," 
and  though  he  now  had  only  himself  and  wife  to  care  for, 
he  was  worth  but  little  more  than  when,  in  years  gone  by, 
seven  hungry  children  clustered  around  his  fireside.  His 
wife,  who  was  greatly  his  superior,  was  a  paragon  of  neat 
ness,  and  made  the  most  of  what  little  she  had.  On  this 
afternoon,  with  clean  cap  and  gingham  apron,  she  sat 
knitting,  so  wholly  absorbed  in  her  thoughts  of  Josephine, 
that,  though  thrice  repeated,  she  heard  not  the  timid 
knock  of  Delphine,  nor  was  she  aware  of  her  presence  un 
til  the  lady  stood  before  her.  Then,  in  some  confusion, 
she  arose,  but  Delphine  immediately  introduced  herself, 
apologizing  for  her  call,  by  saying  that  she  thought  Mrs. 
Clayton  might  be  glad  to  hear  from  Josephine.  Eagerly 
then  her  hand  was  grasped,  and  for  the  next  hour  Mrs. 
Clayton  listened  breathlessly,  while  Delphine  recounted 
everything  concerning  Josephine  %vhich  she  thought  woulu 


352  TIIE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

interest  her  mother.  As  she  saw  how  many  times  th« 
gingham  apron  was  brought  into  requisition,  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  of  maternal  love,  she  felt  indignant  toward  the 
heartless  girl  who  could  thus  spurn  her  home  and  fireside, 
because  they  lay  beneath  a  gable-roof. 

Swiftly  the  time  flew  on,  and  though  upon  the  polished 
stove  the  highly  polished  tea-kettle  boiled  and  boiled,  and 
then  boiled  over,  Mrs.  Clayton  heard  it  not ;  and  though 
token  after  token  that  daylight  was  departing  fell  around 
them,  still  Delphine  sat  there,  gazing  at  the  high,  placid 
brow  and  clear,  hazel  eyes  of  her  new  acquaintance,  and 
tracing  therein  a  likeness  to  Jimmy,  who  at  last  suddenly 
opened  the  door,  astonished  beyond  measure  when  he  found 
who  was  his  mother's  companion.  At  his  unexpected  ap 
pearance,  Mrs.  Clayton  started  up,  exclaiming,  "Bless  me, 
it's  past  tea  time !  How  I  forgot  myself! "  while  Delphine, 
casting  a  rueful  glance  at  the  little  narrow  window,  said, 
"  Dear  me,  how  dark  it  is !  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Stay  to  tea,"  answered  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  and  then  Jim 
my  will  see  you  home.  He'd  just  as  lief,  I  know !  " 

For  an  instant  Jimmy's  and  Delphine's  eyes  met,  and 
the  next  moment  a  velvet  cloak  and  rich  hood  were  lying 
on  the  little  lounge,  while  Delphine,  demurely  seating  her 
self  in  the  corner,  thought,  "  How  funny !  I  wonder  what 
Mabel  will  say.  Perhaps  she'll  think  I  came  here  on  pur 
pose  to  see  him ;  but  I  didn't." 

By  this  time  tea  was  ready,  and  though  the  table  lacked 
the  transparent  china,  silver  forks,  and  delicate  napkins, 
to  which  Delphine  had  always  been  accustomed,  she  has 
frequently  declared  that  never  was  tea  so  hot,  bread  so 
white,  butter  so  sweet,  or  honey  so  delicious,  as  were  they 
that  night  in  Isaac  Clayton's  sitting  room.  After  supper, 
Jimmy,  inasmuch  as  his  mother  had  offered  his  services, 
felt  in  duty  bound  to  conduct  Miss  Delphine  home,  and 


SNOVPDON.  S53 

all  the  misgivings  which  she  had  felt  as  to  what  Mabel 
would  say,  were  put  to  flight  by  that  delightful  moonlight 
walk. 

"  I  declare,  Dell,"  was  Mabel's  first  exclamation,  "  you 
are  actually  reversing  the  order  of  things,  and  paying 
your  addresses  to  young  Clayton,  instead  of  waiting  for 
him  to  pay  them  to  you." 

"  And  shows  her  sense,  too,"  said  Judge  Howland,  who 
was  present,  "for  James,  who  looks  upon  her  as  far 
above  him,  would  never  presume  to  address  her  first. 
But,  Mab,"  he  continued,  "  you  had  better  have  an  eye  on 
her,  for,  in  case  Dell  does  not  secure  him,  I  intend  him  for 
my  own  son-in-law." 

" Oh,  capital! "  said  Mabel,  clapping  her  hands,  "won't 
that  be  nice?  He  can  attend  to  all  of  Uncle  Isaac's  law 
suits,  and,  in  return,  Uncle  Isaac  can  make  all  our  shoes." 

"  But  I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Judge  Howland,  seriously. 
"  You  will  never  do  better." 

"  How  absurd,"  said  Mabel.  "  Why,  he  is  six  months 
younger  than  I  am." 

"Six  months  be  hanged,"  answered  the  judge.  "Why, 
there's  your  mother,  five  years  my  senior,  though  I  be 
lieve  she  owns  to  only  one !  " 

"  Mr.  Howland,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  "  said  the  highly 
scandalized  lady,  who,  with  fair,  round  face,  clear,  blue 
eyes,  and  white,  sound  teeth,  really  looked  five  years  the 
junior  of  her  portly  spouse,  and  probably  was. 

Had  Jimmy  been  questioned  concerning  his  feelings  for 
Delphine  Granby,  he  might  have  pointed  to  some  bright 
star,  which,  while  it  hovered  round  and  over  his  path* 
way,  was  still  too  far  distant  for  him  ever  to  hope  to  reach 
it.  And  yet,  no  matter  how  big  the  law  book  was  which 
ke  opened,  or  how  intently  over  its  printed  leaves  he  pored, 
one  face,  one  form,  and  one  voice  ever  came  between  him 

23 


354  THE  GAKLE-EOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

and  his  studies ;  and  once,  in  making  out  a  bond,  lie  wrote, 
instead  of  "  Know  all  men  by  these  presents,  &c,"  "  Know 
Delphine  G-ranby,  <fcc.,"  nor  was  he  aware  of  his  mistake, 
until,  with  the  best  natured  twinkle  in  the  world,  Judge 
Rowland  pointed  it  out,  saying,  "  Not  so  bad,  after  all ; 
for  if  a  woman  knows  it,  all  the  world  stand  a  fair  chance 
of  knowing  it,  too." 

Poor  Jimmy !  How  he  blushed,  and  stammered,  and 
apologized,  apologized,  stammered,  and  blushed,  while 
the  judge  good  humoredly  said,  "Never  mind;  Dell 
is  a  girl  of  the  right  stamp,  and  if  you  play  your  cards 
right,  'tis  not  her  fault  if  you  do  not  win  her." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   XEW   HOUSE. 


CHRISTMAS  came  and  went  during  Delphine's  stay  at 
Snowdon,  and  a  few  days  after  it,  she  went  to  visit  Mrs. 
Clayton,  who  with  eager  joy  told  her  that  Christmas 
morning  she  had  received  from  the  city  a  hundred  dollar 
bill,  enclosed  in  an  envelope,  on  which  was  simply  written, 
"  Do  with  it  as  you  see  lit."  A  deep  flush  mounted  to 
Delphine's  brow  as  she  quietly  remarked,  "  You  must 
have  some  unknown  friend  in  the  city." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  it  was  Josephine  of 
course  ;  she  is  a  dear  good  girl,  and  then  she  speaks  about 
it  so  modestly." 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  "  quickly  asked  Delphine,  and 
Mrs  Clayton  replied,  "I  immediately  wrote  to  her,  thank 


THE  KEW  HOUSE.  355 

ing  her  for  the  money,  and  saying  I  hoped  she  did  not 
rob  herself.  To-day  I  got  her  answer,  in  which  she  merely 
alluded  to  the  subject  by  saying  that  whatever  she  gave 
ne  I  must  enjoy  without  thinking  she  was  denying 
nerself." 

"  She  is  worse  than  I  supposed,"  thought  Delphine,  but 
she  said  nothing,  while  Mrs.  Claytoa  continued  :  "  It  has 
come  in  the  right  time,  too,  and  is  just  what  we  need." 

Then  she  proceeded  to  tell  Delphine  how  for  years  they 
had  tried  to  lay  by  enough  to  build  a  house,  which  would 
cost  about  one  thousand  dollars.  "  We  have  already  nine 
hundred,  and  with  this  one  hundred  we  shall  venture  to 
commence." 

Here  the  conversation  ceased,  and  Delphine,  soon 
after,  returned  home.  Many  were  the  consultations 
which  she  afterwards  held  with  Mrs.  Clayton  concerning 
the  construction  of  the  new  house,  apian  of  which  she  and 
Jimmy  at  length  proposed  drawing.  This  took  a  deal  of 
time,  and  frequently  kept  them  together  for  hours ;  but 
at  length  the  plan  was  completed,  and  Delphine  returned 
to  the  city,  leaving  Snowdon  all  a  blank  to  Jimmy,  who, 
solitary  and  alone,  pursued  his  studies. 

In  the  spring  the  house  was  commenced,  and  early  in 
autumn  there  stood  in  the  corner  of  Isaac  Clayton's  gar 
den,  a  small,  handsome  cottage,  contrasting  strangely  with 
the  brown  old  gable-roof,  which  in  a  rage  shook  off  a  few 
shingles  and  clapboards,  as  at  Jimmy's  suggestion  a  poor 
widow,  with  three  children  to  feed  and  nothing  to  feed 
them  with,  was  placed  in  it,  rent  free.  One  act  of  charity 
made  way  for  another,  for  the  woman  thus  assisted  took 
from  the  poor  house,  where  she  had  been  for  more  than  a 
year,  her  blind  old  mother,  who  gladly  exchanged  the  cold 
charities  of  a  pauper's  home,  for  a  seat  by  her  daughter's 
fireside 


356  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

Alas !  within  the  fairest  flower  is  found  the  sharpest 
thorn.  Scarcely  had  three  months  passed  since  Isaac  Clay, 
ton  and  his  wife  had  taken  possession  of  their  new  home, 
when  over  their  quiet  dwelling  the  dark  pall  of  death  was 
unfurled,  covering  with  its  shadow  the  wife,  who,  for  more 
than  thirty  years,  had  walked  faithfully  and  lovingly  l>y 
the  side  of  her  husband.  Fever,  which  took  the  typhoid 
form,  settled  upon  her,  and  when  the  physician  who  at 
tended  her  was  questioned  concerning  the  probable  re 
sult,  he  shook  his  head  mournfully  to  the*  group  of  six 
young  men,  who,  with  filial  affection,  had  gathered  around 
their  mother's  sick-bed. 

And  where  all  this  time  was  Josephine  ?  Why  came 
she  not  to  soothe  her  mother's  last  great  agony,  and 
administer  consolation  to  those  who,  stern  of  heart  and 
strong  of  nerve,  still  in  the  hour  of  affliction  bent  like 
a  broken  reed?  Yes,  where  was  she?  This  question 
Mrs.  Clayton  often  asked,  for  at  the  commencement  of 
her  illness  a  letter  had  been  dispatched,  to  which  no  an 
swer  had  been  received,  and  at  last  Jimmy  was  sent  to 
bring  her  home.  Judge  Howland  kindly  offered  his  cov 
ered  sleigh  and  horses,  and  as  Jimmy  was  driving  from 
the  yard,  Mabel,  who  knew  that  Delphine  was  in  the  city, 
requested  him  if  convenient  to  bring  her  cousin  back  with 
him,  saying  that  Kate  Lawrence,  a  mutual  friend  and 
school-mate  of  theirs,  was  then  visiting  her,  and  wished  to 
see  Delphine. 

Jimmy  drove  nearly  all  night,  and  at  dawn  of  day  the 
spires  and  roofs  of  the  city  were  discernible  hi  the  dis 
tance.  Impatiently  he  waited  at  a  hotel,  until  ar  hour 
when  he  thought  Mr.  Hubbell's  family  would  bv,  astir. 
Then  going  to  the  house,  he  nervously  rang  the  do^  c  bell 
His  call  was  answered  by  a  servant  girl. 

"  Is  Miss  Clayton  at  home  ?  "  he  asked. 


THE  NEW  HOUSE.  357 

"  She  is,'1*  was  the  answer.  . 

"  I  must  see  her,  instantly,"  said  he. 

The  girl  eyed  him  curiously,  and  replied,  "  What  name 
shall  I  give  her  ?  'cause,  unless  it's  something  extraordina 
ry,  she  won't  see  you.  It's  her  wedding  day." 

Jimmy  handed  her  his  card,  and  then  in  the  parlor  sat 
down  to  await  her  coming.  In  an  upper  room  Josephine 
was  seated,  together  with  Anna  and  Delphine,  who  un 
willingly  had  consented  to  be  present  at  the  wedding,  and 
had  twice  nearly  broken  her  promise  not  to  acquaint 
M'Gregor  with  the  nature  of  her  he  was  taking  to  his  bo 
som.  As  Josephine  glanced  at  the  card  which  the  servant 
girl  gave  her,  she  exclaimed,  "  What  can  Jim  want  in  the 
city  at  this  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  is  James  Clayton  here  ?  "  asked  Delphine.  "  How 
fortunate  ?  " 

Josephine's  manner  changed,  as  she  said  faintly,  "  Yes, 
'tis  fortunate,  for  now  he  can  see  me  married.  But  I 
wonder  what  he  wants." 

"  Go  down  and  see,"  answered  Delphine,  and  Anna  ad 
ded,  "  Or  ask  him.  up  here  to  see  Dell ; "  to  which  Jose 
phine  rejoined,  "  Delphine  can  go  down  with  me — I  wish 
she  would." 

Acting  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  Delphine  accom 
panied  Josephine  to  the  parlor.  But  the  sight  of  Jimmy's 
pale,  sad  face  alarmed  her,  and  she  instantly  asked, 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Is  any  one  dead  ?  " 

He  soon  told  all,  and  then  repeated  to  Delphine  Mabel's 
request  that  she,  too,  should  accompany  him  to  Snowdon. 
Without  once  thinking  it  possible  that  his  sister  could  re 
fuse,  he  asked  how  soon  she  would  be  ready.  Bursting  into 
tears,  which  arose  more  from  the  dilemma  in  which  she  was 
placed  than  from  actual  grief,  Josephine  wrung  her  hands, 
eaying,  "  Oh,  I  cannot  go,  I  cannot.  To-night  is  my  bridal 


358  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOX. 

night.  The  guests  are  all  invited,  and  I  cannot  go.  Mothei 
will  not  die.  I  know  she  will  not.  She  must  live,  and 
to-morrow  I  will  surely  come." 

Jimmy  was  confounded,  but  ere  he  had  time  to  open 
his  mouth,  another  had  stepped  in  to  plead  his  cause. 
"  Josephine  Clayton,"  she  said,  more  sternly  than  ever  be 
fore  she  had  spoken  to  her — "  I  have  long  known  that 
you  had  no  heart,  but  I  did  not  suppose  you  so  perfectly 
callous  as  not  to  go  when  your  dying  mother  bids  you 
come.  I  would  leave  all  the  bridegrooms  in  the  world  to 
go  to  mine.  Go,  or  I  shall  blush  that  I,  too,  am  a 
woman ! " 

Angrily  Josephine  turned  upon  her,  saying,  "  Who  are 
you  that  presumes  to  question  my  conduct  ?  I  shall  go,  or 
not,  just  as  I  choose,  and  on  this  occasion  I  choose  not 
to  go." 

"  Is  that  your  decision  ?  "  asked  Jimmy. 

"It  is,  for  how  can  I  go?"  she  answered.  "Mother 
cannot  expect  it  of  me." 

"  Then  I  will  go  without  you,"  said  Delphine,  who,  be 
sides  being  pleased  at  again  meeting  Kate  Lawrence, 
whom  she  so  much  esteemed,  was  also"  glad  of  an  excuse 
not  to  see  Josephine  married. 

Jimmy,  though  pleased  at  having  her  for  a  companion, 
would  still  gladly  have  exchanged  her  for  his  sister ; — for 
how  could  he  go  home  without  her?  how  tell  his  dying 
mother,  when  she  asked  for  Josephine,  that  she  had  not 
come  ?  When  they  were  alone,  almost  convulsively  he 
threw  his  arms  around  his  sister's  neck,  beseeching  her 
to  go  ;  but  she  only  gave  him  tear  for  tear,  for  she  could 
weep,  while  her  invariable  answer  was,  "I  cannot,  oh, 
I  cannot." 

At  length  his  tears  ceased,  and  Delphine  recntered  the 
parlor  in  time  to  see  him,  with  blanched  face,  quivering 


THE  HEW  HOITSE.  359 

lips,  and  flashing  eye,  seize  Josephine's  arm,  as  he  said, 
"  For  more  than  two  years  you  have  not  been  at  home 
Twice  have  I  come  for  you.  Once  you  spurned  me,  and 
denied  that  I  was  your  brother,  and  this,  the  second  time, 
when  I  come  from  mother's  death-bed,  you  still  refuse  to 
go.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  curse  you,  for  gladly  would  I 
shield  you  from  harm,  but  from  this  hour  I  feel  that  you 
are  cursed !  You  and  yours !  Blight  will  fall  upon  every 
thing  connected  with  you,  and  remember,  when  next  I 
come,  you  will  surely  go  !  " 

Long,  long  did  these  words  haunt  Josephine,  and  in  the 
years  of  bitterness  which  came,  she  had  reason  to  remem 
ber  them  but  too  well.  Weary  and  sad  was  that  ride  to 
Snowdon ;  but  with  Delphine  for  a  companion,  and  her 
encouraging  words  sounding  in  his  ear,  Jimmy  grew 
more  strong  and  hopeful,  though  his  mother's  face  was 
constantly  before  him.  Delphine  knew  that  it  would 
take  more  time  to  leave  her  at  her  uncle's,  so  with  kind 
consideration  she  requested  him  to  drive  immediately  to 
his  father's. 

Supported  in.  the  arms  of  her  eldest  son,  Mrs.  Clayton 
lay  in  a  death-like  stupor,  from  which  she  occasionally 
roused  to  ask  if  Josephine  had  come.  Upon  the  old  stone 
bridge  there  was  again  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet, 
and  a  smile  of  joy  broke  over  her  face,  as  some  one  whis 
pered,  "  They  are  coming." 

Instantly  Isaac  Clayton  and  his  sons  went  forth  to  meet 
the  travelers,  but  the  face  they  met  was  strange  to  them 
all,  save  Uncle  Isaac,  who  quickly  asked  for  Josephine. 
'  She  is  to  be  married  to-night,  and  deemed  that  a  suffi 
cient  excuse  for  not  coming,"  said  Jimmy,  stamping  on 
the  ground,  by  way  of  adding  emphasis  to  his  words. 

With  a  bitter  groan  Uncle  Isaac  staggered  backward, 


360  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOJf. 

and  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the  timely  assistance  of 
Frank.  "  Who,  oh,  who  can  tell  her !  "  said  he. 

There  was  silence  for  an  instant,  when  Delphine  said, 
"  I  will  tell  her,  if  you  wish  it." 

Then,  with  the  stricken  group,  she  entered  the  room, 
where  the  first  words  which  met  her  ear  were,  "  Jose 
phine  and  Jimmy,  I  have  blessed  them  all  but  you. 
Now  come  to  me,  while  there  is  time." 

Side  by  side  they  advanced  to  her  bedside.  With  a 
wild,  searching  look  at  Delphine,  she  said,  "  You  are  not 
Josephine.  Where  is  she ?  Shall  I  not  see  her?  " 

"  In  heaven,  perhaps,  you  may,"  answered  Frank,  "  but 
in  this  world  you  never  will." 

Those  who  were  present  will  long  remember  the  shrink 
which  echoed  through  the  room,  as  Mrs.  Clayton  ex 
claimed,  "  She  is  not  detd !  Teh1  me,  is  Josephine  dead? " 

Delphine's  soft  white  hand  was  placed  on  the  brow  al 
ready  wet  with  the  moisture  of  death,  and  she  gently 
whispered,  "It  is  her  bridal  night,  and  she  could  not 
come." 

For  a  time  Mrs.  Clayton  seemed  paralyzed.  Then 
raising  her  head,  she  beckoned  for  Jimmy  to  come 
near  her.  He  did  so,  and  taking  his  and  Delphine's  hand 
in  hers,  she  said,  "  May  God  in  heaven  be  with  and  take 
care  of  you  both,  and  bless  you,  even  as  you  have  been  a 
blessing  to  me,  my  dear,  my  precious  boy,  my  Jimmy. 
And  you,  Delphine,  my  child,  my  children."  There  was 
a  moment's  pause,  and  then,  as  if  the  departing  spirit  had 
summoned  all  its  energies  for  one  great  effort,  she  let  go 
the  hand  of  Jimmy  and  Delphine,  clasped  her  own  to 
gether,  and  raising  them  high  over  her  head,  started  up 
erect,  exclaiming,  "  Will  God  forgive  my  Josephine  for 
ill  she's  made  me  suffer."  Then,  with  one  long,  low,  de» 


THE  NEW  HOUSE.  301 

pairing  cry,  she  fell  back  upon  the  pillow,  and  naught  was 
left  of  Josephine  Clayton's  mother,  save  the  tenement 
which  once  enshrined  the  souL 


CHAPTER 
MRS.    M'GREGOE. 

THE  marriage  ceremony  was  ended,  and  Josephine 
Clayton,  now  Mrs.  M'Gregor,  was  receiving  the  congrat 
ulations  of  her  friends.  First  among  them  came  Anna, 
but  the  gentleman  who  accompanied  her  was  a  stranger, 
and  Josephine  was  greatly  surprised  at  hearing  him  in 
troduced  as  Mr.  Granby,  Delphine's  brother.  He  had  re 
turned  from  Europe  sooner  than  he  expected.  On  reach 
ing  home,  and  learning  that  his  sister  was  in  the  city,  he 
hastened  thither,  reaching  Mr.  Hubbell's  just  in  time  to 
witness  the  ceremony.  Thoughts  of  him,  as  we  well 
know,  had  occupied  many  of  Josephine's  waking  dreams, 
and  now  when  she  at  last  saw  him,  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  not  free  to  try  upon  him  her  powers  of  art,  only 
rendered  him  doubly  attractive. 

In  personal  appearance  and  manners  he  was  as  unlike 
M'Gregor  as  was  Josephine  unlike  Anna ;  and  once  du 
ring  the  evening,  as  he  and  Josephine  were  standing  side 
by  side  near  the  center-table,  they  overheard  a  remark 
not  intended  for  their  ears.  It  was,  "  How  much  better 
the  bride  looks  with  Mr.  Granby  than  she  does  with  that 
awkward  M'Gregor ! "  To  which  the  person  addressed 
replied,  "  Yes ;  and  M'Gregor  seems  far  better  suited  for 
P 


362  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

plain  Miss  Hubbell !  See !  they  are  standing  together 
there  by  the  window." 

Instantly  George  Granby's  and  Josephine's  eyes  met, 
and  then  glanced  across  the  room  to  the  spot  where 
M'Gregor  was  making  most  desperate  efforts  to  play  the 
agreeable  to  Anna  Hubbell,  who  was  smiling,  and  bow 
ing,  and  twirling  her  fan.  Again  their  eyes  met,  and 
this  time  a  scarcely  perceptible  smile  curled  the  corner 
of  Josephine's  mouth,  while  George  Granby,  offering  her 
his  arm,  conducted  her  back  to  her  husband,  and  taking 
Anna,  led  her  to  the  music-room,  where  some  one  was 
playing  the  piano.  But  Josephine's  eyes  and  thoughts 
followed  him. 

As  we  well  know,  she  had  not  married  M'Gregor  for 
love,  but  because  he  was  rich,  and  she  knew  that  riches 
would  procure  for  her  the  position  in  society  she  so 
greatly  coveted.  Insensibly  she  began  to  contrast  her 
husband  with  George  Granby,  and  ere  long  she  was  bla 
ming  the  former  for  having  hastened  their  marriage. 
This  was  an  uncommon  mood,  surely,  for  a  young  bride 
to  be  in,  but  Josephine  was  an  uncommon  bride,  and  by 
the  time  the  last  guest  was  gone,  and  they  were  alone, 
she  might  safely  be  said  to  be  in  a  fit  of  the  sulks,  whilst 
poor  M'Gregor,  distressed  beyond  measure,  strove  to  as 
certain  the  cause  of  her  apparent  melancholy.  She  saw 
the  necessity  of  making  some  explanation,  so  she  told 
him,  for  the  first  time,  of  her  mother's  illness,  alleging 
that  as  the  cause  of  her  sadness. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?"  said  M'Gregor. 
"  I  would,  of  course,  have  postponed  our  marriage  for  a 
few  days." 

"  Would  to  heaven  I  had !  "  said  Josephine,  with  more 
meaning  in  her  words  than  M'Gregor  gave  her  credit  for. 

The  next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  a  gay  livery  stood 


MRS.  M'GKEGOK.  363 

before  Mr.  Hubbell's  door,  and  M'Gregor,  helping  in  his 
young  bride,  and  taking  a  seat  beside  her,  was  driven  off 
in  the  direction  of  Snowdon.  It  was  a  delightful  morn 
ing,  and  under  almost  any  other  circumstances  Josephine 
would  have  enjoyed  the  ride.  Now,  however,  she  chose 
to  find  fault  with  all  her  husband's  assiduous  attentions 
and  politeness,  saying,  at  last,  ill-naturedly,  "  Do,  M'Greg 
or,  stop  your  fussing.  I  am  doing  well  enough,  and  will 
let  you  know  if  I  am  uncomfortable." 

He  complied  with  her  request,  as  who  would  not,  think 
ing  she  had  changed  her  tone  and  manner  very  soon. 
About  three  o'clock  they  reached  Snowdon,  and  by  the 
side  of  her  pale,  dead  mother,  the  ice  about  Josephine's 
heart  gave  way,  and  in  the  most  extravagant  terms  she 
bewailed  her  loss.  Uncle  Isaac,  overjoyed  at  again  be 
holding  his  daughter,  and  deceived  by  her  loud  show  of 
grief,  wound  his  arm  about  her,  blessing  her,  and  calling 
her  his  precious  child.  The  next  day  they  buried  Mrs. 
Clayton,  and  the  day  following,  Josephine  returned  to  the 
city,  in  spite  of  her  father's  entreaties  that  she  would  stay 
a  while  longer  with  him.  Promising  to  return  in  the 
spring,  she  bade  him  good-by,  and  when  again  in  the  city, 
she,  to  all  appearance,  soon  forgot  that  death  had  been  so 
near  her. 

Frequently  she  met  George  Granby,  but  the  influence 
she  had  hoped  to  gain  over  him  was  partially  prevented 
by  the  presence  of  Delphine,  who,  together  with  Mabel 
.  Howland  and  Kate  Lawrence,  had  come  to  the  city  to 
pass  the  winter,  her  father,  at  her  earnest  request,  having 
removed  there  for  the  season. 

M'Gregor  took  a  house  opposite  Mr.  Hubbell's,  and 
commenced  housekeeping  in  great  style.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  elegance  of  his  establishment ;  and  Josephine, 
who  managed  to  keep  the  house  filled  with  a  set  of  fash- 


304  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SXOWDON. 

ionable  young  men,  seemed  at  last  perfectly  happy, 
though  her  husband  was  far  from  being  so.  True,  he 
had  the  best  furnished  house  and  the  handsomest  wife  in 
the  city,  but  he  found  too  late  that  beauty  alone  is  not 
the  only  requisite  in  a  wife ;  and  before  the  winter  was 
over  he  would  have  hailed  the  disfiguring  small  pox  as  a 
blessing,  had  it* succeeded  in  keeping  from  his  house  the 
set  of  young  men  so  frequently  found  there. 

M'Gregor  was  not  naturally  jealous,  but  when,  night 
after  night,  on  his  return  from  business,  he  found  his  wife 
so  engrossed  with  company  as  to  be  wholly  incapable  of 
paying  him  any  attention,  he  grew  uneasy,  and  once  ven 
tured  to  remonstrate  with  her ;  but  she  merely  laughed 
him  in  the  face,  telling  him  that  whatever  he  could  say 
would  be  of  no  avail  —  that  he  could  n't  expect  one  so 
young  and  gay  as  she  to  settle  down  into  the  humdrum 
Mrs.  M'Gregor — that  it  would  be  time  enough  to  do  that 
when  she  wore  a  wig  or  colored  her  hair. 

George  Granby  at  first  only  called  occasionally,  but  on 
snch  occasions  Josephine  did  her  best,  acting  the  agreea 
ble  hostess  so  admirably  that,  insensibly,  George  became 
attracted  toward  her,  and  ere  Delphine  was  aware  of  it,  he 
was  a  regular  visitor  at  the  house  of  M'Gregor,  who  never 
objected  to  him;  for,  unlike  the  others  who  came  there, 
George  treated  him  with  the  utmost  deference,  always 
seeming  pleased  to  see  him  present. 

One  evening  the  three  were  together,  and  conversing 
about  ill-assorted  marriages.  Josephine,  as  one  who  ought 
to  know,  discoursed  eloquently  on  the  matter,  and  des 
canted  so  feelingly  on  the  wretchedness  resulting  from  such 
unions,  that  two  large  tears  actually  dropped  from  her  eyes, 
and  fell  upon  her  worsted  work.  M'Gregor  would  have 
given  anything  to  have  known  if  his  wife  considered  their 
marriage  an  unfortunate  one,  but  he  wisely  kept  silent,  and 


MKS.  M'GEEGOE.  365 

Josephine  continued :  "Whenever  I  see  a  person  for  whom 
I  feel  an  uncommon  interest,  about  to  unite  himself  with 
one  every  way  unsuited  to  him,  my  heart  aches  for  him, 
and  I  long  to  warn  him  of  his  danger." 

"  Why  not  do  so,  then  ?  "  said  George. 

"  Would  my  advice  be  kindly  received  ?  "  asked  Jose 
phine,  at  the  same  time  giving  him  a  searching  look. 

He  understood  her,  but  made  no  reply,  and  when  the 
conversation  changed,  somehow  or  other  it  turned  upon 
Anna,  who,  Josephine  said,  was  a  kind-hearted  girl,  but 
it  was  such  a  pity  she  hadn't  more  character, — more  life. 

"  But  do  you  not  think  she  has  improved  in  the  last  re 
spect?"  asked  George. 

Josephine  faintly  admitted  that  she  had,  but  in  the 
next  breath  she  spoke  of  her  as  possessing  very  little,  if 
any  intellect,  and  lamented  her  utter  incapacity  to  fill 
the  sphere  for  which  she  was  intended.  George  Granby 
needed  not  that  she  should  tell  him  all  this,  for  he  feared 
as  much,  though  he  had  never  once  thought  of  breaking 
his  engagement  with  her.  He  had  returned  from  Eu 
rope  intending  to  make  her  his  wife,  and  hoping  to  find 
her  greatly  improved.  And  she  was  improved,  both  in 
personal  appearance  and  manners.  Constant  intercourse 
with  Delphine  had  been  of  great  benefit  to  her,  and  when 
George  came  home,  he  was  pleased  to  see  how  much  she 
had  brightened  up.  Her  health,  too,  had  greatly  im 
proved,  and  as  she  always  dressed  with  the  utmost  taste, 
she  more  than  once  had  been  called  quite  pretty,  though 
at  all  parties  where  Delphine,  Kate  Lawrence,  Mabel, 
and  Mrs.  M'Gregor  were  present,  she  was  entirely  over- 
lot  ked,  or  pointed  out  to  strangers  as  the  young  lady 
who  was  engaged  to  the  polished  Mr.  Granby. 

We  have  not  yet  described  Kate  Lawrence,  and  wo 
cannot  do  so  better  than  to  say,  that  to  a  style  of  beauty 


366  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDOST. 

fully  equal  to  Josephine,  she  added  a  proportionate  kind 
heartedness  and  intelligence.  She  was  just  the  one  whom 
Delphine  would  have  selected  for  her  brother,  had  he  not 
been  engaged  to  Anna  Hubbell.  ]STow,  however,  she 
never  harbored  such  a  thought,  and  she  assiduously  strove 
to  assimilate  Anna  more  to  her  brother's  taste,  always 
speaking  encouragingly  to  her,  and  kindly  of  her. 

George  had  as  yet  never  directly  asked  Delphine's 
opinion  of  Anna,  but  the  morning  following  his  conversa 
tion  with  Josephine,  he  sought  an  interview  with  his  sister, 
abruptly  asking  her  if  she  sincerely  thought  that  Anna 
Hubbell  would  make  him  happy  as  his  wife. 

Delphine  was  taken  by  surprise.  She  had  that  morn 
ing  accidentally  discovered  that  Kate  Lawrence  had  a  se 
cret  liking  for  her  brother,  and  she  was  just  wishing  it 
might  be — wishing  it  could  be — when  George  startled  her 
with  his  question. 

"  Why,  George,"  said  she,  "  what  could  have  put  that 
idea  into  your  head?  Have  Kate's  bright  eyes  dimmed 
the  luster  of  poor  Anna's  charms  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  am  not  thinking  of  Kate,"  said  he,  some 
what  impatiently ;  "  but  tell  me,  honestly,  your  opinion." 

And  Delphine  did  tell  him  her  opinion.  She  spoke  of 
Anna's  gentleness  and  kindness  of  heart,  admitting  that 
on  many  points  she  was  rather  weak  and  inefficient.. 
"But,"  said  she,  "you  are  engaged  to  her,  you  have 
promised  to  marry  her,  and  my  brother  will  surely  keep 
his  word."  Here  a  loud  call  from  Mabel  that  Delphine 
should  join  her  in  the  parlor,  put  an  end  to  the  con 
versation. 

Meantime,  Mr.  M'Gregor  was  about  to  commit  a  sad 
blunder.  Thinking  George  to  be  his  sincere  friend,  as 
indeed  he  was,  and  knowing  the  great  influence  which  he 
possessed  over  Josephine,  he  resolved  upon  asking  him  tc 


MRS.  M'GKEGOE.  361 

rise  that  influence  in  dissuading  her  from  receiving  the 
visits  of  so  many  gentlemen.  Accordingly,  the  next  tune 
George  called,  M'Gregor  took  the  opportunity,  when  they 
were  for  a  few  moments  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  Af 
ter  stammering  awhile,  he  broached  the  subject,  and  with 
much  difficulty  succeeded  in  making  George  understand 
what  he  wanted. 

"  Silly  old  fool,"  said  Josephine,  who  in  an  adjoining 
room  had  overheard  every  word.  "  He  is  meaner  than  I 
thought  him  to  be  ; "  and  then  she  listened,  while  George 
respectfully  declined  any  interference  with  M'Gregor's 
family  matters. 

"  Your  wife  has  sufficient  discretion,"  said  he,  "  to  pre 
vent  her  doing  anything  wrong;  besides,  I  should  be 
working  against  myself,  for  I  come  here  as  frequently  as 
any  one." 

This  was  true ;  and  as  Josephine  at  that  moment  joined 
them,  M'Gregor  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but  soon 
after  recollecting  some  business  which  he  had  down  street, 
he  left  them  alone.  For  an  hour  they  conversed  on  dif 
ferent  topics,  and  then  Josephine,  demurely  folding  her 
hands,  said,  "  When  are  you  going  to  begin  to  lecture 
tne  ?  I  believe  you  have  been  requested  to  do  so,  have 
you  not  ?  " 

George  blushed  scarlet,  and  while  he  admitted  the 
fact,  he  disclaimed  all  intention  of  doing  so  ;  then,  in  the 
tones  of  a  deeply  injured  woman,  Josephine  detailed  her 
grievances,  saying  that  each  day  she  saw  more  and  moro 
her  mistake,  and  that  though  she  did  not  exactly  regret 
her  marriage,  she  yet  many  times  wished  she  had  not 
been  quite  so  hasty.  George  Granby  was  perfectly  in 
toxicated  with  her  beauty,  while  the  tones  of  her  voice 
and  the  glance  of  her  eye  thrilled  every  nerve.  Snatch- 
ing  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  exclaimed,  "  Josephine,  Jose- 


368  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON 

pMne !  why  did  you  not  wait  a  little  longer  ?  "  Then,  a& 
if  regretting  what  he  had  said,  he  hastily  rose,  and  saying 
that  he  had  another  engagment,  bade  her  good  night, 
and  hurried  away,  almost  cursing  himself  for  the  words 
and  manner  which  he  had  used  toward  a  married  woman, 

The  engagement  of  which  he  had  spoken  was  with 
Anna  Hubbell,  and  going  to  her  father's,  he  asked  to  see 
her.  She  had  long  been  expecting  Mm,  but  was  not  pre 
pared  for  the  vehemence  with  which  he  insisted  upon  her 
naming  an  early  day  for  their  marriage. 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  "  asked  Anna. 

"  Ask  me  no  questions,"  said  he,  "  but  if  you  .would 
save  me  from  evil,  become  my  wife,  and  that  soon." 

In  an  instant  Anna  thought  of  Kate,  and  looking  him 
fully  in  the  face,  she  said,  "Answer  me  truthfully,  George, 
do  you  love  Kate  Lawrence  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  he,  "it  would  not  be  sinful  to  love  her 
— she  is  free ;  but  that  other  one — " 

Anna  knew  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting 
M'Gregor's  house,  and  suddenly  a  light  flashed  upon  her 
mind,  and  she  said,  "  It  cannot  be  Josephine,  my  friend 
Josephine." 

"  Your  friend !  "  he  answered,  bitterly ;  "  call  her  not 
.your  friend,  she  does  not  deserve  it.  But  you  have 
guessed  right ;  I  blindly  put  myself  in  the  way  of  temp 
tation,  seeing  no  danger,  and  believing  there  was  none." 

The  color  receded  from  Anna's  cheeks,  and  when 
George  looked  at  her  for  an  answer,  he  was  surprised  at 
the  changed' expression  of  her  face.  Something  between 
a  sob  and  a  groan  came  from  her  white  lips,  but  he  suc 
ceeded  in  soothing  her,  and  ere  he  left  the  house  he  had 
gained  her  consent  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  in 
one  week  from  that  day,  and  that  he  might  speak  to  hei 
father. 


MRS.  M'GEEGOE.  36s» 

Mr.  Hubbell  was  in  the  library.  On  learning  the  na 
ture  of  George's  errand,  he  gave  vent  to  a  few  impatient 
"uniphs"  and  "pshaws,"  but  ended  by  giving  his  con 
sent,  on  condition  that  Anna  remained  with  him  a  year 
after  her  marriage. 

Scarcely  had  the  street  door  closed  upon  George,  ere 
Anna  was  told  that  her  father  wished  to  see  her.  •  "  Well, 
now,  what's  the  mighty  hurry  ?  "  were  his  first  words,  as 
she  entered  his  room,  but  anything  further  was  prevented 
by  the  sight  of  her  unusually  white  face  and  swollen  eyes. 
"Why,  Anna,  child,"  said  he,  "what's  the  matter? 
Don't  you  love  George  ?  Don't  you  want  to  married  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  father,"  said  she,  "  but  don't  ask  me  any 
thing  more,  for  I  am  very  unhappy  ;"  and  bursting  into 
tears,  she  sat  down  on  a  stool  at  her  father's  feet,  and 
laying  her  face  in  Ms  lap,  sobbed  until  wholly  exhausted, 
and  then  fell  asleep,  while  Mr.  Hubbard  gently  stroked 
her  soft,  brown  hair,  wondering  what  ailed  her,  and  if  hig 
Anna  cried  so  a  week  before  they  were  married. 

The  remembrance  of  his  own  darling  wife  caused  two 
tears  to  drop  from  his  eyes  and  fall  upon  Anna's  face. 
This  roused  her,  and  rising  up,  she  said,  "  Forget  my 
foolishness,  father.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  myself  again." 
Then  bidding  him  good-night,  she  repaired  to  her  own 
room.  For  several  days  she  had  been  suifering  with  a 
severe  pain  in  the  head,  and  when  she  awoke  next  morn 
ing,  it  had  increased  so  rapidly  that  she  could  scarcely 
rise  from  her  pillow  without  fainting.  Her  father,  in 
stantly  alarmed,  sent  for  a  physician,  who  expressed  a 
ear  that  her  disease  might  terminate  in  brain  fever.  Or. 
learning  of  her  friend's  illness,  Delphine  immediately  Las- 
teued  to  her.  During  the  afternoon  a  servant  girl  en- 
tered  the  sick-room,  saying  that  Mrs.  M'Gregor  was  in 
Jie  parlor,  and  wished  to  see  Miss  Hubbell. 

P*  24 


X70  THE  GABLE-KOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

"  I  cannot  see  her,"  said  Anna ;  then  calling  Delphine 
to  her,  she  said,  "Will  you  stay  with  me  while  I  am 
sick  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  was  the  answer,  and  Anna 
continued,  "And,  Dell,  if  I  should  get  crazy,  and  Jose 
phine  comes  again,  you  won't  let  her  in,  will  you  ?  " 

Delphine  promised  that  she  would  not,  wondering 
what  could  have  produced  this  change  in  Anna,  in  regard 
to  Josephine.  Next  day  Anna  was  much  worse,  and,  as 
had  been  feared,  she  grew  delirious.  Constantly  she 
talked  of  Josephine,  who,  she  said,  "had  stolen  away  the 
only  heart  she  ever  coveted."  Delphine  was  greatly  puz 
zled,  and  when  that  night  she  for  a  few  moments  re 
turned  home,  she  mentioned  the  circumstance  to  George, 
who,  with  his  usual  frankness,  immediately  told  her  all. 
Delphine  heard  him  through,  and  then  repeated  to  him 
all  which  she  knew  concerning  Josephine's  character  for 
intrigue  and  deceit,  blaming  herself  for  not  having  warned 
him  before.  The  scales  dropped  from  George's  eyes' 
Josephine's  power  over  him  was  gone,  and  he  saw  her  it. 
her  real  character.  The  next  day,  at  his  earnest  request, 
he  was  allowed  to  enter  Anna's  room ;  but  she  did  not 
know  him,  though  her  eyes,  intensely  bright  with  the  fire- 
of  delirium,  glared  wildly  upon  him  as  she  motioned  him 
away.  Approaching,  and  bending  over  her,  he  said, 
"Anna,  don't  you  know  me?  I  am  George,  and  next 
Thursday  will  be  our  bridal  day." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  and  then  with  a  satisfied 
smile  she  answered,  "Yes,  that's  it;  that's  what  I've 
tried  so  hard  to  remember  and  couldn't."  Then  as  the 
physician  entered  the  room,  she  said  to  him,  "Next 
Thursday  is  to  be  my  bridal  day,  and  you  will  come,  for 
\t  will  be  a  novel  sight.  Everybody  will  cry  but  George, 
wnl  I,  the  bride,  will  be  in  my  coffin." 


MBS.  M'GKEGOK.  371 

Poor  Anna!  Her  words  proved  true,  for  the  sunlight 
of  Wednesday  morning  fell  upon  her  gray-haired,  stricken 
father,  weeping  over  his  dead,  and  the  next  day  at  the  same 
hour  at  which  the  wedding  was  to  have  taken  place,  the 
black  hearse  stood  before  Mr.  Hubbell's  door.  In  it  a  nar 
row  coffin  was  placed,  and  then,  followed  by  a  long  train  of 
carriages,  it  proceeded  slowly  toward  the  home  of  the 
dead,  while  each  note  of  the  tolling  bell  fell  like  a  crush 
ing  weight  on  the  heart  of  Mr.  Hubbell,  as  by  the  side 
of  her,  long  since  laid  to  rest,  he  buried  his  only  child. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHANGES. 

TEN  years  have  passed  away,  since  we  followed  poor 
Anna  Hubbell  to  her  early  grave.  With  the  lapse  of 
time  many  changes  have  come  to  those  who  have  kept 
with  us  in  the  early  chapters  of  this  story.  Jimmy  Clay 
ton,  long  since  admitted  to  the  bar,  is  now  a  lawyer  of 
some  celebrity  in  one  of  our  western  cities.  For  six 
happy  years  he  has  called  Delphine  Granby  his  wife,  and 
in  his  luxurious  home  a  little  boy  four  years  old  watches 
each  night  for  his  father's  coming,  while  the  year  old 
baby,  Anna,  crows  out  her  welcome,  and  Delphine,  beau 
tiful  as  ever,  offers  her  still  blooming  cheek  for  her  "hus 
band's  usual  greeting,  and  then  playfully  assists  the  little 
Anna  in  her  attempts  to  reach  her  father's  arms.  Truly, 
Jimmy's  was  a  happy  lot.  Blest  with  rare  talents,  abun« 
daiit  wealth,  and  influential  friends,  he  was  fast  approach- 


372  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

ing  that  post  of  honor,  which  he  has  since  filled,  and  ol 
which  we  will  not  speak,  lest  we  be  too  personal. 

But  on  his  bright  horizon  one  dark  cloud  heavily  low 
ered.  He  could  not  forget  that  Josephine,  his  once  beau* 
tiful  sister  Josephine,  was  now  an  object  of  reproach  and 
dark  suspicion.  Step  by  step  she  had  gone  on  in  her  ca 
reer  of  folly,  until  M'Gregor,  stung  to  madness  by  the 
sense  of  wrong  done  him,  turned  from  his  home  and  sought 
elsewhere  a  more  agreeable  resting  place.  At  first  he 
frequented  the  more  fashionable  saloons,  then  the  gaining 
room,  until  at  last  it  was  rumored  that  more  than  once  at 
midnight  he  had  been  seen  emerging  from  some  low,  un 
derground  grocery,  and  with  unsteady  step  wending  his 
way  homeward,  where  as  usual  Josephine  was  engaged 
with  her  visitors  ;  and  her  half  intoxicated  husband,  with 
out  entering  the  parlor,  would  repair  to  his  sleeping  room, 
and  in  heavy  slumbers  wear  off  ere  morning  the  effect  of 
his  night's  debauch.  In  this  way  he  became  habitually 
intemperate,  ere  Josephine  dreamed  of  his  danger. 

One  night  she  was  entertaining  a  select  few  of  her 
friends.  The  wine,  the  song,  and  the  joke  flowed  freely, 
and  the  mirth  of  the  company  was  at  its  height,  when 
the  door  bell  rang  furiously,  and  in  a  moment  four  men 
entered  the  drawing-room,  bringing  with  them  Mr. 
M'Gregor,  in  a  state  of  perfect  insensibility.  Laying 
him  upon  a  sofa,  they  touched  their  hats  respectfully  to 
the  ladies  and  left. 

With  a  shriek  of  horror  and  anger  Josephine  went  off 
into  violent  hysterics,  wishing  herself  dead,  and  declaring 
her  intentions  of  taking  immediate  steps  for  becoming  so, 
unless  some  one  interfered  and  freed  her  from  the  drunken 
brute.  One  by  one  the  friends  departed,  leaving  her 
alone  with  her  husband,  whose  stupor  had  passed  away 


CHANGES.  373 

and.  was  succeeded  by  a  fit  of  such  silly,  maudlin  fond« 
ness,  that  Josephine  in  disgust  fled  from  his  presence. 

From  this  time  matters  rapidly  grew  worse.  Still,  as 
ong  as  Josephine  was  surrounded  by  the  appliances  of 
wealth,  her  old  admirers  hovered  around  her ;  but  whei? 
everything  was  gone,  when  she  and  her  husband  were 
houseless,  homeless  beggars,  they  left  her,  and  she  would 
have  been  destitute,  indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  her  eldest 
brother,  Frank,  who  did  for  her  what  he  could,  remem 
bering,  though,  that  in  her  palmy  days  of  wealth  she  had 
treated  him  and  his  with  the  utmost  contempt.  Her  sec 
ond  brother,  John,  was  in  one  of  the  southern  states. 
The  next  one,  Archie,  was  across  the  ocean.  Jimmy,  too, 
was  away  at  the  west,  and  for  the  two  between  Archie 
and  Jimmy,  graves  had  been  dug  in  the  frozen  earth  just 
three  years  from  the  day  of  their  mother's  death.  It  was 
well  for  Uncle  Isaac  that  he,  too,  was  sleeping  by  the  side 
of  his  wife,  ere  he  heard  the  word  dishonor  coupled 
with  his  daughter's  name. 

For  a  time  after  their  downfall,  M'Gregor  seemed  try 
ing  to  retrieve  his  character.  He  became  sober,  and  la 
bored  hard  to  support  himself  and  wife,  but  alas !  she 
whose  gentle  words  and  winsome  ways  should  have  led 
her  erring  husband  back  to  virtue,  spoke  to  him  harshly, 
coldly,  continually  upbraiding  him  for  having  brought  her 
into  such  poverty.  At  length,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  he 
left  her,  swearing  that  she  might  starve  for  aught  more 
he  should  do  for  her.  For  a  time  she  supported  herself 
by  sewing,  but  sickness  came  upon  her,  and  then  she  was 
needy  indeed. 

Once,  in  her  hour  of  destitution,  George  Granby,  now 
the  happy  husband  of  Kate  Lawrence,  found  her  out,  and 
entering  her  cold,  comfortless  room,  offered  her  sympathy 
and  aid;  but  with  l^er  olden  pride  she  coldly  rejected 


374  THE  GABLE-HOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

both,  saying  she  was  doing  well  enough,  though  even 
then  she  had  not  a  mouthful  of  food,  nor  the  means  of 
buying  it.  George  guessed  as  much,  and  when  after  his 
departure  she  found  upon  the  little  pine  table  by  the 
window  a  golden  eagle,  she  clutched  it  eagerly,  and  pur 
chased  with  it  the  first  morsel  she  had  eaten  in  twenty- 
fc  ar  hours. 


In  a  snug,  cozy  parlor  in  the  city  of  C ,  are  seated 

our  old  friends,  Jimmy  Clayton  and  Delphine.  The  latter 
is  engaged  upon  a  piece  of  needle-work,  while  the  former 
in  brocade  dressing  gown  and  embroidered  slippers,  is 
looking  over  an  evening  paper,  occasionally  reading  a 
paragraph  aloud  to  his  wife.  At  last  throwing  aside  the  pa 
per  he  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  Josephine  all  day. 
It  is  a  long  time  since  I  heard  from  her,  and  I  greatly  fear 
she  is  not  doing  very  well." 

"  Do  you  believe  her  to  be  in  actual  want  ?  "  asked 
Delphine. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "-From  her  letters 
one  would  not  suppose  so,  but  she  is  so  proud  and  inde 
pendent,  that  you  can  hardly  judge.  Frank,  too,  has 
left  Snowdon,  and  there  is  now  no  one  left  to  look  after 
her." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  servant  entered, 
saying,  "  The  evening  mail  is  in,  and  I  brought  you  this 
from  the  post-office,"  at  the  same  time  presenting  a  let 
ter  to  Mr.  Clayton,  who  instantly  recognized  the  hand 
writing  of  Josephine.  Nervously  breaking  the  seal,  he 
hn  rriedly  read  the  blurred  and  blotted  page.  Jimmy  had 
lid  t  wept  since  the  day  when  the  coffin  lid  closed  upon 


CHANGES.  375 

ais  mother,  but  now  his  tears  fell  fast  over  his  sister's  let 
ter.     It  was  as  follows  • 

"  Jimmy,  dear  Jimmy,  my  darling  brother  Jimmy. 
Have  you  still  any  affection  for  rne,  your  wretched  sister, 
who  remembers  well  that  once,  proudly  exultant  in  her 
own  gcod  fortune,  she  denied  you,  and  that  more  than 
once  she  turned  in  scorn  from  the  dear  ones  in  the  old 
Snowdon  home  ?  You  cursed  me  once,  Jimmy,  or  rather 
said  that  I  was  accursed.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  It  was 
the  same  day  that  made  me  a  wife  and  our  blessed  mother 
an  angel.  They  ring  in  my  ears  yet,  those  dreadful 
words,  and  they  have  been  carried  out  with  a  tenfold  ven 
geance.  I  am  cursed,  I  and  mine,  but  my  punishment 
seems  greater  than  I  can  bear ;  and  now,  Jimmy,  by  the 
memory  of  our  mother,  who  died  without  one  word  of 
love  from  me, — by  the  memory  of  our  gray-haired  father, 
— and  by  our  two  brothers,  whose  graves  I  never  saw, 
and  for  whom  I  never  shed  a  tear, — by  the  memory  of 
all  these  dead  ones,  come  to  me  or  I  shall  die. 

"  Patiently  I  worked  on,  until  wasting  sickness  came, 
and  since  then  I  have  suffered  all  the  poor  can  ever  suffer. 
Frank  is  gone  ;  and  from  those  I  once  knew  in  this  city, 
I  dare  not  seek  for  aid.  Perhaps  you,  too,  have  heard 
that  I  was  faithless  to  my  husband,  but  of  that  sin  God 
knows  that  I  am  innocent.  The  firelight  by  which  I  am 
writing  this  is  going  out,  and  I  must  stop.  I  know  not 
where  M'Gregor  is,  but  I  do  not  blame  him  for  leaving 
me.  And  now  Jimmy,  won't  you  come,  and  quickly. 
too?  Oh,  Jimmy,  my  brother  Jimmy,  come,  come."- 


376  THE  GABLE-ROOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON: 

It  wart  a  chill,  dreary  night.  Angry  douds  darkened 
the  evening  sky,  and  the  cold  December  wind  swept  furi 
ously  through  the  almost  deserted  streets,  causing  each 
child  of  poverty  to  draw  more  closely  to  him  his  tattered 
garment,  which  but  poorly  sheltered  him  from  the  blasts 
of  winter.  In  a  cheerless  room  in  the  third  story  of  a 
crazy  old  building,  a  young  woman  was  hovering  over  a 
handful  of  coals,  baking  the  thin  corn-cake  which  was  to 
serve  for  both  supper  and  breakfast.  Everything  within 
the  room  denoted  the  extreme  destitution  of  its  occu 
pant,  whose  pale,  pinched  features  told  plainly  that  she 
had  drained  the  cup  of  poverty  to  its  very  dregs.  As 
she  stooped  to  remove  the  corn-cake,  large  tears  fell  upon 
the  dying  embers,  and  she  murmured,  "  He  will  not  come, 
and  I  shall  die  alone." 

Upon  the  rickety  stairway  there  was  the  sound  of 
footsteps,  and  the  gruff  voice  of  the  woman,  who  occupied 
the  second  floor,  was  heard  saying,  "Right  ahead,  first 
door  you  come  to.  Yes,  that's  the  one ;  now  be  careful, 
and  not  fall  through  the  broken  stair ; "  and  in  another 
moment  Jimmy  Clayton  stood  within  the  room,  which  for 
many  months  had  been  his  sister's  only  home. 

There  was  a  long,  low  cry  of  mingled  shame  and  joy, 
and  then  Josephine  was  fainting  in  her  brother's  arms. 
From  the  old  broken  pitcher  upon  the  table  Jimmy  took 
some  water,  and  bathed  her  face  and  neck  until  she  recov 
ered.  Then  was  she  obliged  to  reassure  him  of  her  iden 
tity,  ere  he  could  believe  that  in  the  wreck  before  him,  he 
beheld  his  once  beautiful  sister  Josephine.  ' 

He  took  immediate  measures  to  have  her  removed  to  a 
more  comfortable  room,  and  then  with  both  his  hands 
tightly  clasped  in  hers,  she  told  him  her  sad  history  since 
the  day  of  her  husband's  desertion.  She  did  not  blame 
M'Gregor  for  leaving  her,  but  said  that  were  he  only  re- 


CHANGES.  3 

stored  to  her  again,  she  would,  if  possible,  atone  for  the 
past ;  for,  said  she,  "  until  he  left  me,  I  did  not  know  that 
I  loved  him." 

Jimmy  heard  her  story,  and  then  for  a  time  was  silent. 
On  his  way  to  the  city  he  had  stopped  at  Snowdon,  at  the 
home  where  his  father  and  mother  had  died,  and  which 
now  belonged  to  him.  He  had  intended  to  place  Jose 
phine  in  it,  but  the  time  for  which  it  was  rented  would 
not  expire  until  the  following  May:  At  first  he  thought 
to  take  his  sister  to  his  western  home,  but  this  he  knew 
would  be  pleasant  neither  to  her  nor  his  wife.  The  old 
"  gable-roof"  was  still  standing,  and  as  there  seemed  no 
alternative,  he  ordered  it  to  be  decently  fitted  up  as  a 
temporary  asylum  for  his  sister.  When  at  last  he  spoke, 
he  told  her  all  this,  and  then  with  a  peculiar  look,  he  said, 
"Will  you  go?" 

"  Gladly,  oh,  most  gladly,"  said  she.  "  There,  rather 
than  elsewhere." 

The  lumbering  stage  coach  had  long  since  given  place 
to  the  iron  horse,  which  accomplished  the  distance  to 
Snowdon  in  little  more  than  an  hour.  Accordingly,  the 
evening  following  the  incidents  just  narrated,  Jimmy 
Clayton  and  his  sister  took  the  night  train  for  Snowdon. 
The  cars  had  but  just  rolled  out  from  the  depot,  when  a 
tall,  thick  set  man,  with  his  face  completely  enveloped  in 
his  overcoat  and  cap,  entered  and  took  a  seat  directly  in 
front  of  our  friends.  For  a  moment  his  eye  rested  upon 
Josephine,  causing  her  involuntarily  to  start  forward,  but 
instantly  resuming  her  seat*  she  soon  forgot  the  stranger, 
in  anxiously  watching  for  the  first  sight  of  Snowdon.  It 
was  soon  reached,  and  in  ten  minutes  time  the  door  of  the 
old  gable-roof  swung  open,  and  Delphine,  whom  Jimmy 
had  left  at  Judge  Rowland's,  appeared  to  welcome  the 
travelers.  On  the  hearth  of  the  old  fashioned  sitting-room T 


378  THE  GABLE-EOOFED  HOUSE  AT  SNOWDON. 

a  cheerful  fire  was  blazing.  Before  it  stood  the  neatly 
spread  tea-table,  and  scattered  about  the  room  were  vari 
ous  things,  which  Delphine  had  procured  for  Josephine's 
comfort. 

Sinking  into  the  first  chair,  Josephine  burst  into  a  fit  of 
weeping,  saying,  "  I  did  not  expect  this ;  I  do  not  deserve 
it."  Then  growing  calm,  she  turned  to  Jimmy  and  said, 
"  Do  you  know  that  eleven  years  ago  to-night  our  angel 
mother  died,  and  eleven  years  ago  this  morning,  you  ut 
tered  the  prophetic  words,  "  when  next  I  come,  you  will 
surely  go  ?  " 

She  would  have  added  more,  but  the  outside  door  slow 
ly  opened,  and  the  stranger  of  the  cars  stood  before  them, 
saying,  "  Eleven  years  ago  to-night,  I  took  to  my  bosom 
a  beautiful  bride,  and  I  thought  I  was  supremely  blessed. 
Since  then,  we  have  both  suffered  much,  but  it  only  makes 
our  reunion  on  this,  the  anniversary  of  our  bridal  night, 
more  happy." 

Drawing  from  his  head  the  old  slouched  cap,  the  fea 
tures  of  Hugh  M'Gregor  stood  revealed  to  his  astonished 
listeners.  With  a  wild  shriek  Josephine  threw  herself 
into  his  arms,  while  he  kissed  her  forehead  and  lips,  say 
ing,  "  Josephine,  my  poor,  dear  Josephine.  We  shall  be 
happy  together  now." 

After  a  time  he  briefly  related  the  story  of  his  wander 
ings,  saying,  that  immediately  after  separating  from  his 
wife  he  resolved  upon  an  entire  reformation,  and  the  bet 
ter  to  do  this,  he  determined  to  leave  the  city,  so  fraught 
with  temptation  and  painful  reminiscences.  Going  west, 
he  finally  located  in  a  small  country  village,  engaging  him 
self  in  the  capacity  of  a  teacher,  which  situation  he  had 
ever  since  retained. 

"I  never  forgot  you,  Josephine,"  said  he,  "though  at 
first  my  heart  was  full  of  bitterness  toward  you ;  but  with 


CHANGES.  379 

improved  Lealtli  came  a  more  healthful  tone  of  iniiid,  and 
in  the  past  I  saw  much  for  which  to  blame  myself.  At 
hist,  my  desire  to  hear  something  from  you  was  so  great, 
that  I  visited  the  city  where  your  brother  resides.  I  went 
to  his  house,  but  on  the  threshold  my  step  was  arrested 
by  the  sound  of  your  name.  James  was  speaking  of  you. 
Soon  a  servant  entered,  bringing  your  letter.  I  listened 
while  he  read  it  aloud,  and  wept  bitterly  at  the  recital  of 
your  sufferings.  I  knew  he  would  come  to  you,  and  de 
termined  to  follow  him,  though  I  knew  not  whether  my 
presence  would  be  welcome  or  not.  I  was  at  the  door  of 
that  desolate  room  when  you  met.  I  was  listening  when 
you  spoke  kindly,  affectionately  of  me.  I  heard  of  your 
proposed  removal  to  Snowdon,  and  made  my  plans  accord 
ingly.  Now  here  I  am,  and  it  is  at  Josephine's  option 
whether  I  go  away  or  stay." 

He  stayed,  and  faithfully  kept  was  the  marriage  vow 
that  night  renewed  in  the  "Gable-roofed  House  at 
Snowdon," 


TH3E  SHD. 


NEW     BOOKS 

And  New  Editions  Recently  Published  by 
G.  W.  CARLETON  &,  CO., 

NEW  YORK. 


»BOKQB  W.  CAELETOK. 


N.B\— THE  PUBLISHER,  upon  receipt  of  the  price  in  advance,  will  send  any  of 
the  following  Books  by  mail,  POSTAGE  FREK,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States.  Thi» 
Convenient  and  very  safe  mode  may  be  adopted  when  the  neighboring  Bookseller* 
are  not  supplied  with  the  desired  work.  State  name  and  address  in  full. 


Victor  Hugo. 

LES  MISERABLES. — The  best  edition,  two  elegant  8vo.  vols., 
beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  $5.50  ;  halt  calf,  $10.00 

LES  MISERABLES. — The  popular  edition,  one  large  octavo  vol 
ume,  paper  covers,  $2.00;  cloth  bound,  $2.50 

LES  MISERABLES. — In  the  Spanish  language.  Fine  8vo.  edition, 
two  vols.,  paper  covers,  $4.00  ;  cloth  bound,  $5.00 

JARGAL. — A  new  novel.     Illustrated.        .     I2ino.  cloth,  $1.75 

THE  LIFE  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. — By  himself.  8vo.  cloth,  $1.75 

Miss  Muloch. 

JOHN  HALIFAX. — A  novel.  With  illustration.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

A   LITE   FOR   A   LIFE. •        .  do.  do.  $1-75 

Charlotte  Bronte  (Cnrrer  Bell). 

JANE  EYRE. — A  novel.     With  illustration.     I2mo.,  cloth,  $1.75 
THE  PROFESSOR. — do.        .        do.  .  do.  $i-75 

SHIRLEY. —       .    do.        .        do.  .  do.  $i-75 

VILLETTE. —      .    do.        .        do.  .  do.  $i>75 

Hand-Books  of  Society. 

THE  HABITS  OF  GOOD  SOCIETY;  with  thoughts,  hints,  and 
anecdotes,  concerning  nice  points  of  taste,  good  manners, 
and  the  art  of  making  oneself  agreeable.  The  most  enter 
taining  work  of  the  kind  ever  published.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 
THE  ART  OF  CONVERSATION. — With  directions  for  self-culture. 
A  sensible  and  instructive  work,  that  ought  to  be  in  the 
hands  of  every  one  who  wishes  to  be  either  an  agreeable 

talker  or  listener I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

THE  ART  OF  AMUSING. — A  collection  of  graceful  arts,  games, 
tricks,  puzzles,  and  charades,  intended  to  amuse  everybody, 
and  enable  all  to  amuse  everybody  else.  With  suggestions  for 
private  theatricals,  tableaux,  parlor  and  family  amusements, 
etc.  With  nearly  150  illustrative  pictures.  121110.  cloth,  $2.00 


4  LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 

Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes'  Works. 

'LENA  RIVERS. —        .        .        .A  novel.     I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

DARKNESS    AND    DAYLIGHT. .  do.  do. 

TEMPEST  AND   SUNSHINE. —  .  do.  do. 

MARIAN   GREY. .           .  .  do.  do. 

MEADOW    BROOK. .            .  .  do.  do. 

ENGLISH  ORPHANS. —  .            .  .  do.  do. 

DORA   DEANK. — .           .           .  .  do.  do. 

COUSIN   MAUDE. —         .            .  .  do.  do. 

HOMESTEAD    ON    THE    HILLSIDE. .          do.  do. 

HUGH    WORTHINGTON. .  .  do.  do. 

THE  CAMERON  PRIDE. — Just  published.          ,        do.          $1.50 
Art  em  us  Ward. 

HIS  BOOK. — The  first  collection  of  humorous  writings  by  A. 

Ward.  Full  of  comic  illustrations.  I2mo.  cloth,  91.50 

HIS  TRAVELS. — A  comic  volume  of  Indian  and  Mormon  adveu- 

tures.  With  laughable  illustrations.  121110.  cloth,  $1.50 
ix  LONDON. — A  new  book  containing  Ward's  comic  Punch 

letters,  and  other  papers.     Illustrated.      I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

Miss  Augusta  JT.  Evans. 

SEULAH. — A  novel  of  great  power.        .         I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

VAC  ARIA. —        do.  do.  .  do.        $1.75 

ST.  ELMO. —         do.  do.     Just  published,      do.        $2.00 

By  the  Author  of  "  Rutledge." 

RUTLEDGE.— A  deeply  interesting  novel.         i2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

THE    SUTHERLANDS. do.  .        '    .  do.  $1-75 

PRANK    WARRINGTON. do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

ST.  PHILIP'S. —    .  do.  .        .  do.  $i-75 

ROUTE'S  LAST  TERM  AT  ST.  MARY'S.     .         .  do.  $i-75 

ROUNDHEARTS  AND  OTHER  STORIES. — For  children,  do.  $i-75 

A.  ROSARY  FOR  LENT. — Devotional  readings.          do.  $i .7  5 

Mrs.  Ritchie  (Anna  Cora  Mowatt). 

FAIRY  FINGERS. — A  capital  new  novel.      .     I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

THE    MUTE    SINGER. do.  do.  $1-75 

THE  CLERGYMAN'S  WIFE — and  other  stories.  do.          $1-75 

New  English  Novels. 

DEYMINSTRE. — A  very  interesting  novel.          I2mo.  cloth,  $i.'75 

RECOMMENDED  TO   MERCY. do.  .  .  do.  $!•?> 

AKEN   UPON   TRUST. —  do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

Geo.  W.  Carletou. 

OUR  ARTIST  IN  CUBA. — A  humorous  volume  of  travels  ;    with 
fifty  comic  illustrations  by  the  author.        I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

OUR   ARTIST   IN   PERU. —        .  .  »     $1.5° 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  G.  W.  CARLETON  &  GO. 


A.  S.  Roe's  Works. 

A  LONG  LOOK  AHEAD. A 

tO  LOVE  AND  TO  BE  LOVED. 


do. 


I2H10.  Cloth,  $1.50 


do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 


do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 


$1.5® 
$i  50 
$1.50 
$1.50 
$i.5c 


$1.50 
$1.50 
$1.50 


TIMS   AND    TIDE. 

['VE   BEEN   THINKING. 

THE   STAR  AND   THE   CLOUD. — 

TRUE   TO    THE    LAST. 

HOW  COULD   HE    HELP   IT? 

LIKE   AND    UNLIKE. 

LOOKING   AROUND. — 

WOMAN,    OUR  ANGEL. — Just  published. 

ISichard  B.  Kln&ball. 

WAS  HE  SUCCESSFUL. —        A  novel.  I2mo.  cloth,  $i-75 

UNDERCURRENTS. —  do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

SAINT   LEGER. —  do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

ROMANCE   OP   STUDENT   LIFE. —  do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

IN   THE   TROPICS. do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

THE   PRINCE   OF   KASHNA. —         do.  .  .  do.  $1-75 

KMILIE.— A  sequel  to  "  SL  Leger."     Ingress.        do.       $1.75 

Orpheus  C.  Kerr. 

THE  ORPHEUS  c.  KERR  PAPERS. — Comic  letters  and  humorous 
military  criticisms.     Three  series.        .     I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 
AVERT  GLIBUN. — A  powerful  new  novel. — In  press. 

Josh  Billings.  | 

HIS  BOOK.— Rich -comic  sayings.    Illustrated.  I2mo.  clo.,  $1.50 

Tli  os.  A.  Kavies. 

HOW  TO  MAKE  MONEY,  and  how  to  keep  it. — A  practical  and. 
valuable  book  that  every  one  should  have.    I2ino.  clo.,  $1.50 

T.  S.  Arthur'*  New  Works. 
LIGHT   ON  SHADOWED  PATHS. — A  novel.  I2H10.'  cloth,  $1.50 


do. 
do. 
do. 
do. 


11.50 
$1.50 

$1.50 
$1.50 


OUT   IN    THE    WORLD. do.     . 

NOTHING    BUT   MONEY. do.     .  . 

WHAT    CAME  AFTERWARDS. do.     .  . 

OUR  NEIGHBORS. — Just  published. 

Robinson  Crusoe. 

A  handsome  illustrated  edition,  complete.     I2mo.  .c'otli,  $1.50 
Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

THE  CULPRIT  FAY. — A  faery  poem.        .         I2mo.  cloth,  $1.25 

AN  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. — With  loo  exquisite  illustrations  on 

wood.  .        .     Quarto,  beautifully  printed  and  bound,  $5 .00 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
LAUB  VENERIS— and  other  Poems  and  Ballads.  1 2mo.  cloth.  $  1 .75 


LIST  OF  BOOKS,  PUBLISHED 


0!u Hi  be  rt  Bede. 

VERDANT  GREEN. — A  rollicking,  humorous  novel  of  English  stu 
dent  life ;  with  200  comic  illustrations.         I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 
Private  Miles  O'Reilly. 

BAKED  MEATS  OF  THE  FUNERAL. A  COHlic  book,  I2H10.  cloth,  $1-75 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES — with  comic  illustrations,      do.       $1.50 

ML  Michelet's  Remarkable  Works. 

LOVE  (L' AMOUR). — From  the  French.  .        .     i2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 
WOMAN  (LA  FEMME). —        do.  .        .  do.        $1.50 

JT.  Sheridan  !Le  Faun. 
WYLDIR'S  HAND. — A  powerful  new  novel.       I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

THE   HOUSE   BY    THE   CHURCHYARD. —      do.  do.  $1-75 

Rev.  Jolm  dimming,  D.D.,  of  London. 

THE   GREAT   TRIBULATION. — TWO  Series.  I2mO.  cloth,  $1.50 

THE    GREAT    PREPARATION. do.  .  do.  $1.50 

THE    GREAT     CONSUMMATION. do.  .  do.  $1-50 

THE    LAST    WARNING    CRY. >.  .  do.  $1.$° 

KruoKt  Renan, 

THE  LIFE  OF  JESUS. — From  the  French  work.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 
THE  APOSTLES. —  .        do.  .        do.          $i-75 

Popular  Italian  Novels. 

DOCTOR  ANTONIO. — A  love  story.  ByRuffini.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 
VINCENZO. —  do.  do.  do.         $i-75 

BEATRICE  CENCI. — By  Guerrazzi,  with  portrait.        do.         $1-75 

diaries   Reade. 

THE  CLOISTER  AND  THE   HEARTH. — A  magnificent  new  novel — 
the  best  this  author  ever  wrote.        .        .     8vo.  cloth,  $2.00 

The  Opera. 

TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS. — A  collection  of  clever  stories,  based 
upon  the  plots  of  all  the  famous  operas.   I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

Robert  I?,  Roosevelt. 

THE   GAME-FISH   OF   THE    NORTH. — Illustrated.  I2mO.  cloth,  $2.OO 

SUPERIOR   FISHING. —                                      do.  do.            $2.OO 

THE   GAME-BIRDS   OF  THE   NORTH. —  do.            $2.OO 

John  Pljoenix. 

THE  SQUIBOB  PAPERS. — A  new  humorous    volume,   filled  with 
comic  illustrations  by  the  author.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

Matthew  Kale  Smith. 

MotWT  CALVARY. — Meditations   in  sacred  places.  I2mo.  $2.oa 

P.  T.  Knrnuin. 
THE   HUMBUGS   OF   THE   WORLD. — TWO   Series.  I2mO.  cloth,  $1.75 


